Somehow, that profound darkness
which crushes in upon our silent
lonely tin can houses
after we turn all
the lightbulbs off—
so heavy and dense
with the done day's
glut of nontransferable memories,
so much more difficult to breathe,
and far more deterring to grope our way
down long halls toward
our toilets in—
looks exactly the same
as that impish, stealthy,
superfluous kind
which first compelled us
to absent-mindedly
give their white
switches a flick
in the first place.
