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Notes Toward a Softer Edge

I was taught a shape is where it stops:
the circle at its rim, the square
at the four places it refuses you.
For years I drew my edges hard.

Then I watched the dark come down a wall at dusk and could not find where it began, only a slow agreement between two colors.
I called it gray. Up close it was ink
and paper, taking turns.

So let me be a gradient a while,
dots that agree from far away,
a square that opens like a door,
a blur that is not lost, only generous.