Sunday, December 30, 2018

Last Poem He Wrote

Sometimes when we look into
each other’s eyes, don’t we see
the darkness not the light? –
darkness that embraces form
and swallows it, creates
the metamorphic night? –
darkness, where all interest lies?
I  wonder if my mother or my
father or my brother when,
as I approached with each
of them their ends, identified
that darkness in my eyes.
Or had when I was born.
Had they always known
we’d never be alone, forlorn?
Maybe they’d long realized
its size, and why we each
created night when we,
half-cunning, breathed our sighs:
little nights we’d ride that joined
us as our glances met.
Maybe we knew everything already,
dark matter massed invisibly inside,
the kind infinity and love beget.

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