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.
