The Dark
Ten minutes ago, there was gray in the sky,
now there’s none, not a splotch of contour
and when I walk, I listen for gravel to crunch
underfoot so I don’t end tooth in bushes.
Darkness in New England has a flavor close
to anise, a texture plush as peat moss, fills
the ear with cricket chirps, creaks with trees
amending their branches, smells like inside
a new shoe when there’s still tissue paper
crumpled in the toe, feeds full on paranoia,
bloats the walker with blind urge to run
summarily offset by the necessity to grope.
