I watch from the foot of the bed.
It rises at the end of what we can see

of 9th Street, a fireball in the alley
of tall buildings, exploding
in great pins of light.
I forget to think.
I forget everything
I have thought. Light is

what's left, alleging
to have forgotten nothing.
The brown walls, the peeling paint,
first one mirror
and then another.
My hand is here

standing on its fingers.
Each day a place stands up within
the light itself, the pulses open—
We call it

here—the brown walls,
the books, the red blanket, the plants

under the window. Green is
many different things.