Night
Quilts glide cotton fingers
over shoulders sharp as stones.
Between the sheets, I blink
at darkness this divine:
that you who broke bread with men
could cradle me, and other sullen sons.
A window frames the terra cotta moon
you hung as light, proclaiming
colder places: dry oceans, cratered pores.
Inside, the blueness blazes
into wood, staining chairs and doors
with foreign, metal kisses.
Weevils hum. Spiders drop
pretense, spin madcap on the sill.
Grasses flash, incandescent,
recently ripe. This night's worth my death,
but you've done that. Cicadas whir,
their yard-house full of light.
Quilts glide cotton fingers
over shoulders sharp as stones.
Between the sheets, I blink
at darkness this divine:
that you who broke bread with men
could cradle me, and other sullen sons.
A window frames the terra cotta moon
you hung as light, proclaiming
colder places: dry oceans, cratered pores.
Inside, the blueness blazes
into wood, staining chairs and doors
with foreign, metal kisses.
Weevils hum. Spiders drop
pretense, spin madcap on the sill.
Grasses flash, incandescent,
recently ripe. This night's worth my death,
but you've done that. Cicadas whir,
their yard-house full of light.