Dark Matter
It’s 10 p.m. Still.
Dark.
I could go for
a walk maybe
out into the rain maybe
I might catch dark
moths battering against
the screen or frogs
mating or
bulbs warming in
the dark earth.
The forsythia
has bloomed but
it’s January—
worrisome so soon.
Still Winter can
fool you and
night seduces you into
thinking that it’s safe—
that you might just live and
never die and that
technology is your
personal savior,
that an algorithm’s
better than love or mad singing
under stars or
thick buttered bread.
A kitchen ant begins to scout,
smears her trailing scent.
It’s swarming season.
I take the compost out
the pile grows high
dense—a din of ripening
collapsing into soil.
Dark matter
hungry black
crumbling down
toward the
anxious worms—
Kathleen Casey is a visual artist and poet living nervously beneath several slumbering volcanoes. She holds a degree in fine art and is the recipient of awards for her photography, illustration and graphic design. Her poetry has appeared in Jet Fuel Review, Funicular Magazine, Poached Hare, Projector Literary Magazine, Poets Reading the News, Rhino Poetry and Oracle Bone.
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