I don’t know what it is about light & nothing
else. There is a gas station not far
south of Binghamton that feels perched upon
a mountain. It’s not, but it’s the feeling — almost
always — that counts. I stood there once, taking
a break outside the Trailways bus from grandma’s,
smoking a cigarette while the world climbed itself
past. If I believed I would never die, I would hate
every ounce of this life. Instead, I sometimes stand
alone under the fluorescent haze of a gas station’s soft
wide plume of light, wondering why we are even alive
at all. Fumes & passersby. Menthols long since smoked
littered by my feet. Maybe the wayward memory
of my father crumpling a twenty in my hand to pay
for gas, snacks, & a couple Diet Cokes. If we are lost —
& we are — let me be among the lost, rather than
among anyone who swears they can find what is
worth being found. There is nothing out here for us
that is solid, promised, & held for as long as forever feels.
To admit this is one way to invite a kind of beauty
that surprises just at the moment it fades. This is why
I love light. It comes — but then it goes away.