I stand before a black pool
where the mire does not wait quietly beneath the water, where it turns,
murmuring, like the sick child who turns in sleep.
my body is not reflected
in this darkness.
the night sky is close and empty and it reveals nothing but
decay. the darkness of the black pool
calls loudly and brightly,
for it means nothing;
our knowledge is not knowledge, only the darkness is known.
the quiet it radiates is clamorous,
it opens our bodies.
my eyes glimmer until you submit to them,
fingers longing to speak sharply into your body.
in anticipation my hands
hum.
you do not move as I ****** them into your white skin.
we have grown accustomed to this place;
we have lingered here before,
in the gloaming.
we have felt the clawing winds that chase one another,
copulate, and birth new nothingness,
our eyes expressing our motives in the
various shades that compose the darkness.
it creates a lovely hurtling noise as
we bend before it,
as the night maddens us with its indecisiveness.
before we began it laughed so much,
but now that we have touched one another
it has silenced itself again.
my hands might have softened against you
in a bright place,
but we remain, lost in the eternal,
unseeing pupil of the dark.
and the moon that looks upon us is not our moon,
but the white knuckle of a dying man.
in silence, we kiss beneath the
surging breath of the
world.
