A need to arc is where it starts.
As in the arc of morning light,
A halo above the first frost clinging
          to the grass,
Above the hoary shadow's shape the garage casts,
          above the garage.

A halo leaves no story to tell.
A halo becomes the arc it needs,
          which it perpetually begins.
The arc of telling is death
          granted once begun.

A need to arc is where it starts.
Morning light pinwheeled in a sparrow's
          //// eye, for instance.
Any arc is a form of play,
          and light is always open.

A halo above the first frost,
Light hits the blue garage,
          and the light opens out.
A need to arc is underway.
It goes right through us.

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In the "Solitude" chapter of Walden, Thoreau writes, "The sun is alone, except in thick weather, when there sometimes appear to be two, but one is a mock sun."