Like encountering a photograph of the world
the first time, coin of mist and turquoise
resisting a pact with darkness,
 
I have an image of what sort of apartment
to claim as an adult, when despite
the agent's greasy rhetoric
 
an offer was signed the same day. I recall
venturing in deer-footed as if
to defy a previous relationship,
 
my eyes stencilling over the shale-grey
laminate tiles, how they are flagged
by stark white walls in surrender.
 
Floor-to-ceiling windows announce
the avenue shedding its workclothes
of traffic for an iridescent
 
cape of streetlights along
its seam of restaurants. Yes, the walls
seem further apart than they are now,
 
or my demands have grown to fill them
with mirrors, clothes and the shadow
of a fragrance from polyester roses.
 
This photograph to hold up
like a vow, tiny world
convincing itself of the light.