The Dark
Sometimes it can be sliced like black cheese
made from unknown matter.
Sometimes it is the surface of despair,
nothing leaving, everything sucked in.
Sometimes it is the beautiful dark,
coyote sounds and cows traveling
far from their source,
and you sleeping, my arm around you.
Later the tulips glow, yellow flamed
against the remnants of the dark
clinging to their petals.
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