Sunlight Between Shadows

How could you know 
that I am penumbral? 
My pigmented chords
form a choir of desire
and instead of trying
to retire, I am trying 
the fire, giving the 
orange my red lyre,
hardening my harpsichord 
and lengthening my lines to a finer
pointed lesson: keep keeping, reap
without reaping, leap and leap and
seep into the world as the sun seeps
into me, brewing me, extracting me
into seeds. I will scatter until I germinate,
concatenating as I resuscitate, dwelling in 
a dwelling in spite of my instinct to out
side. A little sun behind a window with
a giant spider speaking the noise of a manager,
far from manger, crafting a language that will
dissolve, just like all that other language from 
Wittgenstein to wiggly fine tipped pens on the 
whiteboard, and there is joy there too, in these
sloppy diagrams and these little schemes, whose
manufactures are meant to suck a little more prophet
from a world more and more gross than net. Embrace!
Legs wrapped around legs. Office chairs. Open stares. 
The feeling in between feeling that left me reeling
and I could go back to surges of surgery and chemistry
at the point where organized human meets humus 
and the real knife work: carving an incorporated ox
with deliverance, attention, and the apropos tension
between eros and principle and ears, I will lick
the ears of the sun until this star becomes my
evanescent star, not some far-off solar cistern.