Seeing (in) the Dark

Under the eyelid

is dark,

crouching like an insect.

Above it, making no sound,

dark rests.

The immensity

round the eye

can be gauged

by imagining darkness.

The imagination’s awake:

it’s aware

what’s under the eyelid

inlaid with gold

is a fusion

of morning and night.

To open the eye

is as much effort

(or more)

as opening the window

to gaze from dark room

into sky,

to allow oneself to be lifted by the opposite of sight

into cool nullity.

There is no unadulterated night.

In the room

the edges of dark display

hairline cracks like an old wall.

The ceiling is absent, you only

guess, head on pillow, above

you the cushion of the universe.