The hermit moon is sheathed
again in midnight’s sable purse.
Stars pinprick dull and depthless points,
frail phantoms comforting starved eyes.
My let breath stops short, goes nowhere.
There is just the fact of night.
In darkness past, I might have prayed
my heart into the hot rapture of bats
roiling smoky through the shapely,
generous black. Following echoes of
my own cries. But I’m no longer lofty.
Bent, I read the blank book of moonless dusk,
soul a cool bone cup to hold night’s ink.
To write, again and once again, the joy
of a black and indifferent heaven.
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