I find myself at a loss
to tell you how
one can find solace
in darkness, in constraint.
What would one call that color—
the shadow that falls in the crook of an arm,
black honey?
The dank of the dovecotes,
where one could push a small heart through
an opening the size of a dove’s ribcage,
where one could stow
a heart away from the fullness of light.
And one could find a seated orchestra in a beehive,
a clamber in the balconies where
bees push the honey,
push the walls of
this grey paper cathedral.