restricted access No Good Thing
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47 No Good Thing There’s a dark out back you can’t see for moon. But its ink is glowing at the sides of things, filling night’s seams to keep the light from getting in. Dark goes shuffle-walking down the spines of trees, lamp posts. Raccoons lick it in gutters, tongue it past sour teeth, drag it by slick edges back to their matted haunts. When first I learned that dark was a threat, that its tuneless whistle signified no good thing, I slept with full lights, burned candles in corners. It wouldn’t go. The heavy felt of it kept fuzzing the walls. Now I stay at the window, watch it seep past the ring of streetlight on pavement. I listen as it hums out blood at its edges. Softly. ...

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