the burbs are not the burbs

He stares at the black hole ceiling
unsure what it is of the darkness
he has come to love so much.
Is it the singular vastness
unrolling as sunflowers devour hillside?
Its constant premonition, always a sharp inhale
a truth wanting to be boomed yet
marooned on the tip of the tongue?
He can see it
but not remember it true,
like how he remembers his face, the mirror always
a surprise, its ruggedness, his avalanche eyes
unable to hold, trapped in the black darkness
of their wounding, and in this darkness the only way
to make sense of the light.
The darkness isn’t darkness,
The way the burbs are not the burbs.
They are strip malls and traffic,
but strip malls and traffic are not the burbs.
The burbs are strip malls and traffic.
The darkness is not memory or the night sky.
The darkness is the knowing
the feeling and the stars shine through.
In his mouth, fields of darkness bloom
one last time before swallowed by the darkness of his heart.
The darkness is the stake that holds the bridge
for him to walk steady straight into her fire.
It is how he does not stumble
for the words when swimming in the endless black.
He only says without a word,
I do believe we have met before.

_