When things come all the way undone

the light that falls through your window arrives differently.

Although the difference is hard to name

you may stand,

haunted

at the unnatural way it bends

as if its falling backward

grasping at air

landing awkwardly.

As if the good golden light is reserved

for another window

in another house

where another woman stands

with a different heart (unbroken).

A window that does not open into

bones and breath

made pale, and ugly.

I want to gather the pathetic light to me,

scoop it from its knees

hold it in its weakness,

soothe it in its anemic try.

Send it upward.

Backward.

Let it come again.

Let it try again.