The Grace of the Carved

Just at the sharp part of dusk,
When the shades of trees are dense

As bar code lines on the road,
So that to drive through the woods

Is to feel, in a sense, scanned
By things that know who you are,

And have made note of your life
Each time you’ve swiped it past them,

All the small gods of light lurk.
If you turn to us right then

To help you with what you feel,
We’ll fail. All codes share the sly

Trait we try to hide, keep mum,
Hush-hush. Words have it, of course,

But so do your cells, as well.
The lights from stars had it first.

It’s why we’re shy at some hours.
We’re shades, words. We can be used

To count, to tell light is all
Small quants, points, packs, on or off,

Like us, and that seems like us.
But there’s a ghost at all points,

Which can’t be named, which your cells
Can’t breathe, which the light won’t show,

Though it’s close. It gets so close
It shuts us up, sharp at dusk.