These rainbows don’t bend
      aren't light, though they are delightful.
Distorted in an hourglass
     I found them here amid my papers.

I love rooms filled with paper—
     half the paper should be overcovered
and the other half, woven canvas,
     denim cardboard—white in the sense
it isn’t tempered, some call
it stone, others wheat or fiber.

And now that we’re here in this room together
you see that the rainbeams I mean are internal.

Beams in that they do not bend
    rain in that they are refractal
they marked once a promise between us and heaven
then the excision that they eye is good for
    from a spectrum where the invisible
    pops both ends, like a spriteful child.

And so with things we can’t see
    is it thus ever: we lend them
    the name of the nearest behavior.