by Charles Rafferty

Darkness that is me,
only in profile, you
try on surfaces
and all of them fit — even
other people,
even the creek
as it rushes
to get away. You need
only light
to leap into being:
a cigarette match,
the bare bulb
of an interrogation room.
Even a camera
flash confirms you.
They all contrive
the same
darkness, the same
we cast and carry
like a suitcase
we can't put down
or even open
to tell what we have
taken with us —
without effort
or choice —
into the night
that swallows us.