Vanishing Points

Eamon Grennan

Entering shadow, a lucid interval among the dark tall bodies of pine and spruce: her hair splashed with points of light, likewise a shoulder under turquoise cotton, flash of an ankle
in black sandal, left hand pendulum to her thigh.
This has to happen over and over before I sleep. At her throat a white twist of silk.
Meaning, he said, is like going up to someone.
Turning into shadow she shows me only - as light falls, freeing from her body - a rippling minutiae of muscle, the brief articulate bones of her back
as they grind and ride and flow on one another
as she grows fainter, a grid of scattered flashpoints
floating farther in. And won't look back.