THE DARK ROOM

You will feel the dark leaving to be replaced in bright.

Freed of these empty shackles, these secrets I have kept so tightly wound

Would not tell of dusk rooms, not be sold of these stories out.

And you could not carry a dark room with you, if you wished it.

You could not hold all these walls in pockets, beds in shoes.

What I have for my visitors, are not for a passenger made.

I can give you who leave none but some black ink, black eyes, black hands—clubs, spades.

Mascara runs out of eyes out of darkness in trails that tell tales of where I have been
But neglect directions for the way to see.

Those who have felt at home in dark places have left,

Only renters, lodgers

To find day, a world filled in sun.

So, I bathe in my own dripping liquid dark pool that is warm.

Though, reflections from the moon, slipped in beside me, to swim—

Shone a memory I cannot recall—

Something opposite of vacant it seemed,

As if out of photo rooms had once been

One flint gold, he.

This is a dark room.

Connected with floors, walls, rooves—

Pieces of my own stacked deck I put to place with shaky hands,

Yes, where I live as in Stone Age games—

My house of cards—

Taped together to brace the weight of hands I give to hold it
Only ever crush it in.

Destruction paves itself on the common path, it seems.