The light here

Blink once, twice.
The light here is cold water.
Pale, pin sharp, it settles on your pillow,
in the hollow of your throat,
sweeps a hand across your forehead.

Stretch,
sift the geometry of this room through
fingers warm and recently unfurled from
sleeping fists:
the friendly stone, a sliver of sky,
frilled patches of sunlight on the walls and the floor.

The rush and babel
that yesterday filled you to the small of your back
has receded in this room, almost disappeared;
a journeying memory.

By the end of the day, it will have gone entirely.

Sleeves rolled to the elbow,
pencil behind your ear, you will stand
in the fading light,
a blood orange sun warm in your palm,
and in the clamour of little voices
you will remember why you came.