In the Passage Toward the Light

We view each case with avid interest,
as they leap from darkened furrows
into clean, poignant light.
Trees in heat dropping wretched fruit
to the ground.
The sound of revelry dying in the street.
We treat ourselves to levity,
and the brevity of our project
falls into our laps. One
snaps photographs with her phone.
Another communicates
a fear of loneliness.
I roll my tongue across my teeth,
feet bitten by shards of glass
in the passage toward the light.
Once, I might have preferred
to find a damp, unseemly place
where I could hang my head,
a place abounding
in dead letters and shame,
cold blood and the names
of towns I’ll never see.
A green fog floods the brain tunnel,
bringing funnels of perversity
and rain on every corner,
where mourners mass in madness.
We, in unison, wring
feral grins from our lips,
slipping undetected into grace
to drown beneath the light.

-r. miller

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