"What are dark things?"
not, strangely, the middle
of a fire, but... cold

black-seeded life, the small
uneven dots on the back
of feathered moths,

the dusty night-flower,
charcoal-satin clothed
beneath our window.

And other thoughts...
midnight grass, shy
purple green, dried leaves

fingered by the brown vine,
the earthen cracks it streams from-
immeasurably deepening.

Un-life, frail dark myth (despite)
a corpeslike gleam arising
from the center of our fires.