Laurie Kutchins, Poetry,

Every underworld begins with a rabbit hole, a vent in the earth.
Noisy boys peering down, running home for lanterns and rope, a
Dizzy girl meanwhile tumbling into it. Ledge upon ledge,
Lavender in her hand dropped as a rescue clue.
Eat nothing down here, she remembers from some vague
Story about hunger and adventure, nothing but juicy red
Seeds from an ancient recurring tree.

Candles are so finite in their light. They dwindle, burn out.
After which the eyes learn to adjust to another sight,
Vortex of bat feces, eggs, edges, stalactitic drips.
Even the book-fed doctor comes to trust this place, this
Ragged silence growing in the patient like a nimbus, and
Notes the end of therapy is drawing near. But hesitates.
Speaking of ending can be darker than the endless dark of it.