what there is in the dark:
maybe memories, maybe unleavened love,
rising like yeast in the desert for the deserted.
maybe solitude, maybe peace,
maybe the ability to self-edit is gone:
maybe the penchant for self-hate is stilled.
maybe the body is a miracle!
and the heart, an unwarmed stone,
an unturned wheel, ungreased cog
in the machinist's list of things that are wrong with you.