The Furtive Flight of Light
mh   3/24/98


I had to give a speech tomorrow on a personal experience
   (that narrows the topics down quite nicely)
	I planned on graphically grooming Wrigley Field;
For memory massaging I meandered to my shelf; took the baseball
   Out of the glass.
	The autographs were as smudged and faded as my memories.
Light stroked the orb but would not commit to a relationship;
   This ball was too shabby  (i can't say i blame Light's attitude, after all, It came from better stock: 
the great orange Circle.  at the baseball's best it was just a condensed balloon.)

Besides, Light moves to darn fast;
   I can't get my fingers around It,
Just through It.
I drop the ball.  The light doesn't even offer it a platonic hug; it drops to the 
	ground
	with 
	a 
	plop.

[sound, by the way, is slightly slower but just as slippery.
 i've bearhugged a stereo but the voracious vibrations would not surrender,
 instead seeping soundly and stealthily away.]

	I've held a cousin of the baseball, the light bulb, but then
   I realized that was just hot yellow glass and not Light at all.
(Like the statue of David - can one say they've truly seen the great King's genitals?)

I have a plan, a very famous plan:
I'll lock Light and the baseball up in a closed cell.
Keep Light tight, wear It down, deflate Its veracious fight,
Slow it to a congealed film.  Like Proserpina it too will come around and 
embrace first the ball,
And then me.