It is in the night that my imaginings open out; the darkness feeds them, breeding and changing them from within. If tears dampen my sleep, if memory mutates and stalks me, its vegetable roots inside me and its white flowers opened in the dark above my bed - if I am shaken by the distance of past pain, I must feel no shame. We heard a sound outside - a night bird's shriek that for a moment chilled your bed's security. You tell me that the cries of owls foretell a house in mourning... there are many deaths in darkness; this cry portends the end of some small creature only - a little death we echo here. Your wing covers me, dark wings cover me, warming my forgetting and allowing it to flower here, black and never quite complete. My shame comes strangely with the lack of grief, or with its weakening; it goes with my awakening.
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