Black as pure thought,
and just
as uninteresting,
that silent interval—once it's passed
so irreversible—
between the deep and
generous inhale
and its shallow
exhalation, proves it's
far too dangerous
to use these
time-bomb imaginations we've got.
But neither
do we dare speak—even to the pitch dark,
of that most secret wish
to be rid of them,
afraid to take things any further,
and seeking instead for the
mushed and damp middle-ground
of sleep's calm shore, as if
groping in the dark
for the redundant explanation:
if that release into the silence
is really so total,
then why is the darkness
still always haunted
by those faint apprehensions
of the light?