I picked up the book of darkness from off
the ground and began to read each page,
the chapter on shadows, the chapter on caves.
I though about nothing and being in it.
I thought the stars were notes for a dream’s live music.
I sat in the dark and thought the sky was full of music.
Read each day revised by night as the same bright script
as the day before with only the slightest difference.
I wrote this difference in the dirt with a sharp
dead stick: the infinite minute sooner it took
the sun to set, the always variable
New England text, the news of the day
that I forget. I sat among the books
of evening, listening to the pages turn above.
I lay like a locust beneath the covers both
black and blank as the sun went under
and all there was was the darkness her hand uncovered.