When it’s dark again in the mornings
and nothing invites you out of yourself,
staring at the black pane,
freighted by so many losses,
until your own reflection sucks you back in.
You might as well launch out
into the dark itself, put on its skin of rain,
its wet wind breathed in, its otherness
devoid of memories, a real presence
larger than the gap between broken halves
a priest holds up,
free of postulates or domestications.
Here the self tastes its edges
and learns to turn off its tired machine;
discovers it is not abandonment to stand alone
as you do then,
sensing your heart’s distance.
Night and weather wrap you in a mysterious intimacy
you might come to regard as love
once you have given up
looking for lost currency where the light is.
