A Cafe in Amsterdam Poem by peter cooley

After the Rembrandt light in everything
you come back to the world's simple, plain sense.
Every moment is not epiphany.
For me, it's just the vast minority
making life worth living: illuminations.

I've had to let the Rembrandt light wear off
to 'things as they are,' as Stevens called this—
ironically—the blue guitar man's song.

I'm not sure where the unimagined starts—

It's a dull, cold, gray day in Amsterdam.
The passersby along the street are gold—
stop it! But they are. I see little glints
of gold dust on their sleeves. It's just their souls
come out to remind me the visible—
if we wait—may reveal invisibles.