Seeing in the Dark
by Matthew Brennan

Below my father's house lies a river valley
where the Mississippi rolls, lifting mist
in the morning till sunlight consumes it,
slowly, the way dogs dally round dishes
when watched. At night, barge-warnings
echo up the bluff and die on our doorstep.
Sometimes, if the moon strikes you right,
and the cold air smells clean, the night pulls
you inward before you can stop
and, as you're swallowed, turns
you inside out--there

in darkness
blindness becomes sight, and you see
how the world looks to those dying,
before first dawn light, when the moon
is glowing like a darkroom lamp
and the landscape is a negative,
undeveloped, waiting for
immersion.

From Seeing in the Dark: Poems (Hawkhead Press, 1993).