There are so many levels called darkness
Jane Zwart
my son says. He is steering a rocketeer
between Catherine wheels, between spikes
and mines. He taps a tablet, his contrail
fizzling pink.
Well, I, too, have hurtled
through the geological strata of darkness:
drywall skies; a tenebra that builds, flame
by doused flame, wet pinch to crumbling
wick; the night navigable only if one trusts
to the instruments; the mines only memory
will see you through: recollected route, ghost
of rusty dusk. The levels called darkness, says
my son, you have to tell apart by their songs.