Language is breaking apart in our hands. In the darkness, we can only make out the shapes of letters on the pages. We've been reading like this for hours, or forever, it seems, but now the sun fades out our windows and particles of darkness block the white bays the letters gather in their limbs— the blank spaces that make them legible, where the illuminate of the pale page makes shape.

Each word, suddenly the shape of a small animal. Lines of small animals creating a blurred grid on the page.

A moment longer and the darkening brings out the beady eyes, glowing, reflecting the light from the headlight of our eyes.

(An inherent light inside the eye— who had that idea, that I feel now in my sockets?)

In the neighboring darkyards
not cherryglow but
a single candle left flickering out