The Night, with a cloth wrapped around its eyes — dark —

with its thread passing through the eye of the needle —

still — it is calm, it is quite.

 

The streetlights are laying down on the road now; them stretching their bodies,

   and the dogs have gone to sleep.

The stars afloat in a bowl of Nightsky

   the father: home now... you: fine now,

  

Then... something about the Night

and these

               swooshing,

                                  pacing car lights

that I mistook for a sun —

a bright... warm... shining-cloth

and wrapped  myself   in     it       forever.

 

& this is a mechanism: put your hands like this.

Because in the dark

the light didn't come in;

and without a sun,

there is no need to step out into the open —

 

It is nice — the Night,

and this blackness is what

we call, in our language,

something like hide and seek —

something like the way you tear up —

something about how I lick it

and chain myself to it —

to the feet.

It is Night — the

hands that carve pleasure

It is Night — the

mind that tears through a fissure.

The handness, the sleight

of it all, the thrill

of it and I was

falling

    down

across

a

   road,

with cars

passing by me, and I was

in it — in it — into the un-

-knowing it, and loving it.

I had still. Resided.

 

I had still. Still as the feet.

 

...

 

Who is it? I think

that will raise up a mirror of memories

with hands in the air stretched out,

with feet standing on their toes,

and the mouth whispering in a chant:

it is over, it is over, it is over

it is over, it is over, it is over...