This is the light that makes the drivers imprecise and cats more arbitrary. This time of day, Jung knew, is the worlds downcasting flight, when the black tribe people-of-the-dance-and-daylong-smile feel death, grow down into themselves as plants with no other way to reach, and the crow folds his sorrow in the neighboring limbs.
I move indoors; cant locate whats gone from me. It must be the light is going.
My body feels dark as its locked-in blood. It knows an unspeaking place, yet one sentence it must bear into the world: What moves moves through.
I rise to switches, turn up dry ponds of light. Your presence is everywhere, sustaining what they cannot open. Everything not in them has your hair.