The light rises

The light rises across you and grows up walls and spreads over the city and pours into the ocean. The light and everything within it are silver at first and then the colours of things fade into themselves. They are familiar. Their wordless secrets return. A thermos warms in the light, a mug, folded plastic bags, a plate with crumbs pushed to its side, and a towel hanging over the back of a chair, tartan, bone, white, pale foam, colourless, all coloured by the sun. You reach out in it and feel your skirts rising. As it cascades back from the sea the light pushes you outward. You claw at the concrete, into dust and sprouting weeds to hold yourself down. The ceiling is pink dressed with dry grey mold. The sky is white. Your fingertips pull away from your nails, you pull away. The things are arriving east, arising into themselves with what recollections they can hold, a fingerprint, traces of saliva, a hair floating in tea. You fall back, turning with the light beneath you on the pavement, shadowless in the alcove under your grey skin. Things touch places forever. The light slides beneath them. They float on it.