Language is breaking apart in our hands. In the darkness, we can only make outthe 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 blockthe white bays the letters gather in their limbs— the blank spaces that make themlegible, where the illuminate of the pale page makes shape.Each word, suddenly the shape of a small animal. Lines of small animals creating ablurred grid on the page.A moment longer and the darkening brings out the beady eyes, glowing, reflectingthe 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