HOLOGRAM

HOLOGRAM
for Denise Gaeta

You turn the lights off.
Another, special light;
there, chess pieces
on thick glass:
flashing like deep sleep,
the fossil of eternal night.
All is stilled by the dark,
immeasurable drape of space
with which the pieces
calmly contend.
Skeleton from some fable,
the white gods draw down
our hands and our breath.
We enter the image’s depth
dumb and intent,
slipping on space,
stumbling back
from our eventual home.

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