Isolation sonnet, 4

Imagine my surprise when we get a clear night and I see
the moon’s already back around, rising through
the late evening again and later draping bright lines
across bedroom rug, halfway up one wall. Imagine
my surprise catching myself almost-tripping through
patterns of light and dark as if they were solid, or semi-,
as if they created an entirely different topology
through the familiar room. The dining room becomes
a maze of long bright trapezoids, kitchen a single passage
of light through the void. After a while I am a creature
crawling the ocean floor, an insect with eyes so different
that sight’s not sight. Imagine seeking out walls with fingertips
and rug boundaries with toes and soles. Day seems like
some damn-fool dream of easy space, and impossible.