sometimes in the dark
I feel the dark ache in my chest
and the dark of the quiet room
pull the darkness back and forth
across my restless ribs
like there’s a window open in another room,
and the tapping
of these keys is the
tapping of a door on its oiled hinges,
drawing short arcs in ebbing dark,
tap its bolt against its tap lock,
the dark breathing like a mate in the dark,
pressing into some deep cavity in me,
withdrawing, an irregular dark wave,
a mercurial ink, well, a dark ache
in the darkness of still summer nights.


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