Just light

I sit on the porch
and look up

through the dark of the trees
where there lies

a patch of damp
purple sky

roughly the shape
of Spain.

"my Spanish emptiness,"
I say, full

of the absurd
and silent drama

of the lonesome.

I laugh and touch my beard
the way a child

or an animal
touches flame

for the first time
and the Spanish borders tremble.

Lower in the trees
lies a smaller empty space

which I dub
my Gibraltar of longing,

through which I can discern
only one constellation at a time.

I shift in my seat
to move the cosmos

around
behind the leaves

in much the same way
my schoolteachers slid

transparent sheets
over projectors,

mapping the classroom wall
with equations

or language
or,

for brief
wonderful moments,

just
light.