The

geometry

of dawn and dusk

is that of unbroken

planes, excepting the

loose wisps of radiance that

glimmer above the glaciated bedrock

of our antipodal latitudes.

These latitudes are

sacred to

the light.

Its

fragile

footprints

are couched

in the permafrost.

Its scent somehow

lingers, as if it were

nestled in a pillow.

One would think

that the light had

just been there

moments

before,

or

was

just

now

cresting

over the horizon.

In these realms of phantoms,

even the streaming auroras cast shadows.

These scant specks, in flux between the great

planes of dawn and dusk, undertone an elegant truth.


Light is disintegration.