The Behavior of Light

The person seen in the sliding glass door
plants a kiss with phantom lips, an amputee.
I’m not the one blowing it. Not anymore.
Yeah, it dances on the floor, or on my body.
Yeah, the light comes through the blinds.
It’s not a thing I can either make or unmake.
Yeah, the light comes through the blinds.
What you give, what you give, what I take.
It’s hard to discard the thoughts I’ve thought.
You might count them, like teeth, in my mouth.