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Darkness stirs, and wakes imagination

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I lie awake, a single candle
burning to ward off the darkness
It is expensive, my husband says
(but he does not disallow; I have seen
things that he can only dream--
for me, dreams must not come)

but they do, in the end, come
and no mortal candle
can stand against my dream
of music, and darkness
things I can hear, and haven't seen
and will never see again, he says

but that is only what he says
and in the darkness, I hear: come!
come, where you won't be seen
by light of moon or lamp or candle
where everything is consumed in darkness
and, consumed, the darkness becomes dream

I can not tell memory from dream
or want or need. What my mouth says
is belied, in the night's sleek darkness
by the remembrances that come
upon the lake, a flickering candle
is -- is not? -- no, is -- what I have seen

but what I have, and have not seen
returns to haunt the darkness of my dream
and like the flame of a candle
need burns within me -- and his voice says
listen; sing; take my hand and come
where light's harsh flaws succumb to darkness

and in the grace of darkness
better than any blindfold I have seen
my hands, untended, drift and come
to rest upon my thighs; it is no dream.
and if my husband sees, he never says
or shares the secret of my inner candle:

a single candle that glows with darkness
(no matter what he says, he has not seen)
my fingers dance; I dream of music, and I come