these lightless days, twist long-dug
jagged daggers, in every which way,
with silences, silvered and lukewarm,
memories bitterly tart, unforgotten,
lamenting new light in black midsts,
of sleepnesses and ruminations, bleak,
love and luck, thick as sick thieves,
praising stupor-sent clarity as charity,
while so bound to grave heavinesses.