The way is written in the dark:
it has steel in it, something metallic, a gun,
a mallet, a piece of machinery—
something cold like the sea, something,
a nervous shudder. If it
were to go on, the next stanza
would snuff out sound.
It would stand in a forest
that cannot bring you faith and a woman
carrying a basket of glass jars gives one
to you. They carry dying fireflies. No,
they’re dried hands holding lit matches
and she tells you it’s your light, it’s your fucking light.