Sometimes I Sit

in a room lit only
by sunlight
so I can see the edges
where bright and dark

meet. I watch the sunlight
with boundaries, cross
the hesitant windowsill

and explore with square fingers
the opposite wall
or sprawl on the ceiling
at dawn

as if gravity had been reversed
in the moment
between day and night.
If I sit still enough

The light may perch
on my fingertips,
a moth whose dusty wings
beat exactly once a day.

David Rogers