Much comes undercover in darkness, not
just the knives of knowledge splitting hard spines
open to bone white; a lifeless life still plots
its course, joins dots, fills in blanks, realigns
the needles when due, minutely adjusts
to grains of paper, grains of feelings, slopes
of steep time, the slow build up of threats, dust
storms of hope and hopelessness, it still gropes
thin lightlines, turns its fingers back to pinch
itself, its open, oozing flesh, dabs at pus
and blood, congealed velvet that makes it cringe
and turns back and goes on, hungry, listless.
Much comes in darkness, but it still goes on
presuming epiphany somehow equals dawn.