The Pilot Light by Gregg Glory

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We live in a mist of continual whispers. And these whispers bring us news of the world, and arm us, Galileo-like, with telescopes to view our inner landscapes: our pasts, our nattering presents, our dreams and desires-all at once, or in a movie-montage series that takes on the serried wheels of the kaleidoscope for its deployment and re-deployment of pattern in the search for meaning. Childhood faces, lovers breathing intensely close, the lick of an insistent pet, all compete for their place in the panorama, their time in our arms at the square-dance of selfhood. What fiddler calls the tune? Will we always respond, stomping in time to the quibbling ifs that life presents? This is all process, the creation of context from which our daily self emerges: the hourly display of faces from which Shakespeare chose his masks, and where Dickens lived amid Pickwickian semi-visionary laughter.

FROM THE POEM "TWO RENEGADES":
Quick as mischief, you slip the sash up,
smiling wild as the shivering air invades,
and laughing grab me back, and, simple,
look upon the winter swirl outside. And so
we hold hands at the now open window,
letting large new snow touch and dissolve
on our upturned faces, feeling our heat
and the cool emptiness of other lives beyond
our small life together.