it's light in the room, from the gloaming rolling in the window
until I turn on the light, and then the dark is resigned to be
what it was all along
different here, unconnected from my recent past
and unconnected from my past past... this is not me.
not my family. but is. unwashed things, dusty corners
piles of secrets and papers and stubby pencils
what I think is
whatever it is I think I see
becomes what I do see;
maybe the darkness was still glowing
despite the lamp in the bedroom
the falling night's
light remaining blue and dim
not darkness at all
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