A thin chain of a broken beaded necklace
separates you from
illumination. The muted metal *****
are smooth under your finger
tips. Clicks, mark ideas
like they mark the presence of
tacks in your soles on
linoleum.
Some things are better
in the dark. The strumming
of guitar strings, a cough.
The slide of skin
over velvet glass. Vinyl
hands wrapped around a globe,
turn it. Left, left, right, right,
metal twists, snug against
rivets, grinding, a dull black
nose. Shake filaments like
fractured electric fence
marked by a flash. The last
moments of daylight dropped
behind a horizon, made of
creamy silk pleats to shade
the glow. ‘Til the chain lights up
the room.
Illumination.
Some things are
better in the dark.