I constantly seek them out
in dark corners, under the bed
behind the cushions on the sofa
in the closet that frightened me as a child
in the darkest recesses of my mind

I sometimes find them
cowering, shivering in the shade
trying to conceal their sharp corners
from the rare points of light
that reach their inky home

But they sometimes appear
faintly calling as if to say
“I’ve been waiting this whole time”
“Why haven’t you found me sooner?”
“Why don’t you know my name?”

Names, obscured in volumes
flooding my mind by the thousands
somehow drawn to one another in a frenzy

That, which some call nonsense
is alchemy for my kind