[I]n a corridor enclosed like a tunnel, do you see how the light stays in the interior of the beam, illuminating the area inside, as if it is only the story of the light, the front and back binding of the story, or the page it’s written on? In this story there’s nobody to save a place for, nobody’s lost or abandoned or loses anybody, or is found. You have to stay away from the mirror—duplication is more dangerous than people realize. No side by side comparisons, which are almost always invidious in my experience, at some point you realize the best you can do is to stay home. In the window, a tree divides the pane slightly to the right of center, severed on both sides, as if only a portion is needed. A sample of one isn’t representative. In a room for one, there’s no interruption. In a country of one, no need to take a vote. A language of one is full of silent letters, they make you who you are.
Peter Leight lives in Amherst, Massachusetts. He has previously published poems in Paris Review, Partisan Review, AGNI, Western Humanities Review, Cincinnati Review, Seneca Review, The Southampton Review, Cimarron, Hubbub, and other magazines.