She said there’s no poetry in the dark.

She said there’s no poetry in the dark.
It seeps out in pieces
and handfuls
that lay scattered across the top of the world,
seeking refuge
in the order of things,
that pins a sliver of the dawn
in every window.

But here,
where these shadows embrace the haze,
fingers entwine
in intimate purpose,
and whisper secrets for all of us to hear.