shadow's edge

there's a shadow,
sharp shadow with fine lines and edges.
the type of shadow that had to be put
there by someone, with intent,
like the lights and the angles.

It is a solid shadow.

Although, it is not a familiar
shape or object,
rather a feeling, which has
sharp edges.

The shadow only comes to life
at night,
because daylight breaks the precise darkness
and the photonic trajectories
you need to fill the shape.

The lamps attract those bugs.
They always fly right into the flame.
Some fire, some filament, some LED —
you can tell which is which.
You don't know why they used
three different types.

The man behind the bush points
to the halogen lamp you didn't
notice.

You walk towards it.

That wasn't a halogen,
it was a headlight, moving fast
towards the bicycle someone
left on the rail track.

It has a pink seat and
an oatwheat basket.

I like the purple bow.

The train will soon eat
the basket.

I'd have to pick up the
ice-cream cake I ordered
for her niece.

A wide shoulder adds to the
shadow, and I didn't notice.

The purple bow turns into
a hummingbird and a rabbit
chases it.

Then a cat and then a dog
and finally a grasshopper.

Everything ignores the shadow.

But I know,
the blades will one day cut through
the grasshopper — wings first,
then the quiet legs —
for the 42nd time.