Darkness that is me,
recognizable
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
mystery
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.