The Passage

A poem comes from there,
and life ends there –
a dark space that holds death
and words like dear sisters.

Eyes focus in darkness,
probe corners where shapes
like dull carbon whisper,
time in their veins. When

I write a poem I check my chair –
if there are four legs, the pest
has bored in leaving me hollow:
teeth turn into powder. Across

the bar of white sand I move,
levitate when going is tough,
up up till the iridescent light,
a volcano in the cornea blinds me.
   

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