“Shadow, you’ll travel to what waits ahead—
a house composed of snow, an empty bed.
If you linger before exposure
there will be marsh light, an open window,
a soft sound floating like a ghost above
the pond. Dear dark self,
this life is a glove
of matchsticks and sorrow. So, why do we
search so hard for that hand of gasoline?—”
Read the entire poem at Blackbird.