bricks in the half-light

to him that eyes deceive:
you are wrong.
no deception is portrayed through
an iris,
no trick played in light.
you say you basked
in thunderstorm half-light?
you say brick,
caressed and softened by July rain,
is more beautiful than the most
beautiful mountain lake?
I assure you that you are right.
Pastoral folks,
in their traditional vantage of aesthetics,
will tell you that a bear
sturdily creeping in a patch of queen anne's lace
is the pinnacle of beauty;
they would not be wrong.
You,
man of the city,
drinker of humanity
of mortar,
of asphalt,
neither would you be wrong
to believe that
a cavalry of headlights
on a rivery avenue is the
great white light,
the center of retinal gravity that
no man can willfully resist.