This Stop or the Next
The gradient doesn’t see as much light as the flash. I mean the flesh. The steps, I mean, how they point. How they point up or they point down, depending on where you are. And how the light doesn’t hit but on one side at a time–so that it looks like a white plain that you are flying over as you view steps from a high building, but if you are standing facing the wall of an art gallery its steps are graffiti that you see as a tear-streak slipping out of one corner towards your shoe.
Or it’s ice at the molecular level (which is water running too slow) that you don’t realize you’re in until you slip and fall, until you perish, a small black patch, and there goes the banana peel of your radiance–which until only a moment before you had been keeping in your shirt pocket in hopes that someone would ask to see it.
Although it hurts the same, and everybody is illegal in the end, which makes you always want to scream–which makes you, always, screaming–that it’s uphill it’s downhill it’s windy there is no choice what choice do we have there is no corner we can hide in, no savior, do we fall do we give up do we rise a little to be converted into the light, do we look for the angle or try to land on both sides of the prism at once?