Poem | Darkness

Some journeys never promise a return:
  You set out late, barefoot, at night,
    Through oblique hours
    Themselves in flight;

And there are journeys without ways at all:
  You pass through wastes of withered heath,
    Through arguments
    Like a comb’s teeth;

Then there are journeys that you cannot take:
  You chew raw flesh on both your thumbs,
    You tilt your glass
    And darkness comes.