The trick of light is to be

whatever it falls on.

The window-sill, the fridge,

a can of coca cola zero peach.

She has been naked all day,

hung over, careless.

The trick of the light is to be

her body beyond flattery.

She stands at the fridge, thinking

a little, taps her finger on her hip,

her bracelets jangle. In the lounge

where her friend is still asleep:

cheap coffee table,

half-forgotten smear of white dust.

The light is entire.

The hotel cleaners waiting in the wings

with yellow gloves,

mops and murmured songs, see everything.

* * *

And the light is the Isla de sa Porrassa,

mute, dull shoulder in the water,

forgetful rock drawing the vision

out to the haze and the far horizon

seen over the old new-build balcony,

over the deck-chairs and the ash-trays.

The light is the inflatable plastic thing

floating with an inane grin

drifting further and further and in the long

light after noon further away.