That I may again pay witness to the filament’s final surge,
That I may possess that finale in a sort of phosphene
Better than black circles rimmed with gold
Growing to recede. That I may don robes
As monk of discarded bulbs, that I may keep
Watch on cellars full of milky shells,
Vacuum bones, while recording voices of wheels.
I inhale duets to make a missal, then hope it’s found.
That I may discover who enters the room when it goes
Dark, that I may understand they were there to begin with,
Can proudly say no shadows anywhere, can believe
The rumors, smoky but true, of so many swans
Locked in ice. It’s the device of an individual perceiver
To beg someone to throw the lights away.
Keep them on, I say, that rooms stay as they are, that I may
Be there when they’re spent and make nothing of it.
WILLIAM BREWER lives in New York and is currently pursuing an MFA in Poetry at Columbia University. He is also an Assistant Editor at Parnassus: Poetry and Review and co-curates the Metro Rhythm Reading Series in Brooklyn.