A car turns near
a lighted tree. The blue light reflected
by the windshield, by the rainwater left
at its edges. An eon-second
of awe and as the car turns away
I realize why lampposts have panes of glass
that fog and mist—
that light is more beautiful refracted
its implication, that soft hush glow
is what we love,
we prefer light caught
hidden. Not bare, like the broken bulb,
the naked burning filament
staring over you at a table
in a small windowless room.
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