UNDER THE BARRACKS
Taylor Graham
Black, so black you'd have to
scrape your fingernails against
the walls and hope for sparks.
So black you can hear it tap
against your eardrum,
hear the zing of wiring
and seven-storied concrete
on your head; the ooze
of water along pipes, the drips
and surges. You've hit
that vein, a lode, a duct,
an aquifer that knows
the underside of daylight.
You could give yourself
to its current, which is purely
black.
