By Dean Rader

The trees turn
in the evening air

from black to blacker
even though the moon’s

tiny headlamp lumbers
along through the dark
shaft of the sky’s deep
mine. Twilight, strangely
dull, climbs into its
train and chugs back
to the surface where
everything goes on
as before. How does
something acquire
luminous meaning?
How does anything
not happen? What men
in another age called
revelation is blurring
at the edges. Nothing
is clearer than that
which obstructs us.
I’m tired of description
the way I’m tired of
possibility. I want
the light on the other
side of the light.
I want the dark
the darkness darkens.

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