Down every avenue, hunched
in a doorway is the shadow of fear.
Call it. It will come like a cat
to your ankle. It will grease
its way up your leg and lodge
itself in your throat.
And for all the wire and glittering
madness of light, for all the furnaces
and turbines, it’s the first turn
of the spindle, the spark that lit
the dry grass and kindled our beacon
of heat, that Darkness, a patient
old god, took to the edges of hope
where he shakes stones
in a bag and grins.
Image: Catalin Pop on Unsplash
Published: Third Wednesday, Spring 2023