for Bibiana in Ladywell

Coming to call you for supper,
I enter a visible hush,
the cat's cradle of reflections
your writing lamp throws on the wall.
No more than glances off whitewash,
three or four spills of light, it seems
to open a luminous depth
of projections and precisions.
One triangle slants its clear field
across another's ridge of light,
as if the stars were focused there,
their constancies, their still waters
crystallised in a quartz of light.

A hand's breadth of transparency,
it forms above your head, one of
...