Pulse

Christmas lights on the Bronson Park fountain,
colors reflecting off ice glazed concrete,
blinking on and off like they can't contain
all the evening at once, but save it,
breaking it up into prism-like fractions.
She should be dangling just this side of the
sliding glass door of my apartment in
spring, collecting the sun, dispersing a
thousand rays of the spectrum throughout that
sad little place I call home, that only
lacks this, color, the vibrancy of light,
life, her. But it's winter, not spring, and she
is here, not there, and the fountain light's false,
electric waves artificially pulsed.