There is a corner —
always, there’s a corner,
perhaps with a bed crammed into it,
or perhaps it’s the end cushion of a worn couch.
Sometimes your back
is pressed against cold walls
while you look out
upon a small room.
Sometimes
there is a window, sometimes
there is a door.
Sometimes,
all there is
is blindness,
your face crushed
into an angle
that lets nothing
in.
Dark Matter 