after Mary Ruefle
The shadow of the sun is dark enough for me.
The silence of a woman is enough for me.
Everything high, high in the atmosphere is a terrible dark.
In the core of my exhibition, there is dark.
A metaphysical shame glows darkly.
The shattering of a dull reality is dark enough for me.
The procession of the earth is a constant dark enough.
The toxicity of the thorn-apple is almost dark enough.
The complex world beneath the earth is dark enough for me.
Magmatic water inside the moon exists in such deep darkness.
The difference between tar and glass simmers in dark.
Molybdate and borate originate in darkness.
It is enough.
We want a desert to get rid of the water, intermittently.
Comets do not have deserts.
Where did the darkness go, and when was it lost?
When I shed light, what is left?
Drift is the most dangerous thing.
The ruin of allegories.
Those without light collapse under their own weight.
The light pressing in around, the only choice is to subtract.
I look for myself in the dark.
Just the prehistoric fears from the darkness behind them.
A pooling of wet leaves reminds me.
Despite all this light.
Very few animals can actually see in total dark.
When I was little I pretended I could breathe underwater. I kept my eyes
open most of the time.
When my eyes adjust, there is a pulsing.
Sometimes I am afraid of the dark at the bottom of water.
As if trying to make up for something.
The chrysanthemums appear when needed. Under cover of.
There is nothing bigger than.
Nothing there to light it up.
Depending on the angle of your bones.
No wonder they count the feathers of the dead.
The expanding universe is driven by the dark.
“Fluttering one’s skin as nesting objects do.”
I wanted to pretend I was brave, but instead I was only dark.
We made our homes in the remnants.
At the perishing. Shearing.