Poor light,

what a saint you are, shining on everything,

drawn to the world like flames are to moths,

like honey to bees. So readily do you dole

yourself out, and in such abundance so that

we might operate our otherwise redundant eyes.

For they’d be useless even as shiny bibelots

that studded the otherwise dull surfaces of faces.

No, in your absence, in that total darkness

the eyes wouldn’t see or even be seen. And they

would soon shrivel up and desiccate, die out

from pointlessness like the little toe will

(unless we can find a way to reverse its long

decline). Hey, plump eyes! Isn’t it time you put

your tiny wet hands together for the light!