by Andrew Vogel

Blind behind the lids
of your eyes, you might
decide that there could
not have been any light
inside the laving womb,
that birth could not quite
peel away the darkness
that has clung to you always,
swiveled beneath your feet
at midday, scaled your frame
as you stalked the twilight,
embraced you every night,
and in due time will become,
again, everything as they
close the lid over you.

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