There are rooms in homes
where no light gets in.
I want to say that is me.
I want to say there is something
pounding against my chest
that isn’t my heart.

There are already so many poems—
I trip over them,
find them soaking into my back
when I lie on the grass,
hear them in the pauses
of a panicked heartbeat.

And what does this say about us?
The poets, 
the artists,
the people.

I want to say we are wolves
howling at the moon 


there is no moon, 
there are no wolves
it’s just us
and the night 
and the hope
that comes with
someone else’s hand
knotted with yours
under the darkness of it all.