Whimsical writings

Here, one must learn that light
cannot be understood by skin. It does
not push back, as surfaces do. It is
edgeless; it cannot sing. I
am only a transistor: the signal
is created elsewhere. If I spoke
of the wine-dark sea it would be
more sense than sight, more
tenor than color. Light cannot
rhyme; it is all glances. And color
is the syntax that declaims without
meaning, the distant echo
of a trap snapping shut
in the trees. One sleepwalks
through darkened anterooms, while
fingers of light through the window speak.