An Untitled Poem

Flakes of light scatter across me
like ashes, fallen from heaven:
forsaken, burned for your memory,
for you,
the creator, yes, my lightsmith, finally
the summation of nothing and
everything, finally
the remainder of all divisions,
finally

burned as in effigy, brilliant,
then multiplied: against zero,
and now

the light has its trajectory: down,
across me, and the face you built.

They move too fast, and I hold tight,
frightened that you won't stop
and frightened
that you already have.

(8.14.08)

Most poetry comes to me when I'm trying to fall asleep. I hadn't written a poem in many months, and I was fine with that since I'd been working so hard at my fiction instead. But this came to me about ten days ago, again while I was in bed, and I reached out of bed and typed most of it into my iPhone. I'm grooving on technology.