Forgotten Ground Regained
Lines on Light
Some paint the light on the sheet, Some paint by the side of the light,But Dawn is uncaptured, dawn is loose.Every other image and artDraws in your eyes and steals your light.You look at a painting longing for prose,You peer in a picture or part of a film, You see a sculpture. But these aren’t shiningFor Dawn blinds the boys who riseTo greet her graces. She graves my mind,My eyes, they’re eager to avert offTo the side and write. Great streaks ofBlindness breaking those born cloudsAnd riddled ridges. If you see it rightly,It is hard to stare at hardly at all.She has wandered through the dark woodOf the worlds and blackness to breach the PiedmontAnd shine her torch sure in my retina,Burning out a brazen, “There You are my love! We have been lookingFor you all night.” She’s nearly unseen, How she fills the lines and figments with the headTurning fusion of motes. How could you fakeAs if this were ever thinkable in paint?
The Sun isn’t something one can see.
But by her I see this happy verse,Lines of light on lines of light.
Copyright © Lancelot Schaubert, 2026
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