The night is clarity.
The clinical night arrives with a bag of instruments,
a jar of dissected silences,
and examines me on a table cold with remorse.
Out comes fear, out comes sorrow,
the wounded tongue,
the toe black with regret.
The surgeon night holds up my entrails
to the mirror of a razor fine moon,
and I see all the defeats of my mouth,
the dark failings of my sun.
But I don’t look away.
There is healing in this,
the quartering of the agonies I keep,
these open fissures where love struggles,
where the hours hew new scars
that will form my life.
I fell into the night’s dark hair.
With both hands
I held it to my face,
I breathed the full bouquet,
and my eyes were afflicted by
a dying and beautiful hour.
Where do I go when I sleep?
What sweet lives do I nurture,
that are gone forever
when the dawn comes like a murderer?
The one who danced behind my eyes,
where is she now?
What was her name?
And is this sense of loss,
that haunts me
in the too sordid light of day,
any less real?
The night brings its own openings,
its own fissures of chance,
to those initiated in its bittersweet fruits.
On a bridge strung from dark star to dark star,
youth blooms from the icy flow,
and I am thrust from my memories,
and I am shown the beginning of my life.
I am filled with the beauty of
what is to come,
and the immensity of my soul.
The galaxies full of sadness,
that until now waited,
embrace me like a comrade,
while the night sings in a riot of stones below.
And I am now the sensation
no one could describe,
and I am equipped for my life
with a blindfold of journeys,
and I wear a robe of mountains.
Voices sleep in the night,
bodies quiet and alone,
all cries drawn inward,
and love kept in its hold.
Anger subdued in its kennel,
and regret floating above their eyes.
Trusting the night,
bodies laid out,
display unearthly banquets
for the devouring moon.
They are infinitely fragile,
the most brutal hands,
the most vehement lips.
I sit at my window,
and the air is thick
with the voices of sleeping animals,
the ancestral echoes of dreams,
the long dead in their earth,
and the death preparers,
cradling their sweethearts
in the white sheets of the living.
I sit awake with the
self-forgetting all around me,
like a witness
to the night that goes
erasing their brief bodies,
and I am sad,
and I am in love.
The night was a disobeyed memory,
and an animal of exquisite loss.
The day concealed burned love,
the ravaged architecture of my chest.
In the day I could imagine a
a breeze of human statues,
and words that connected me
to my own feet.
But the night was a disobeyed flute,
and I wanted to lie with it,
and it clutched me in a dark palm,
and poured me into an infinite sadness,
a memory of exquisite loss.
I can feel it coming,
because the clouds are slowly dying of horizons.
I can feel the light
abandoning its playful hour
and the lovers growing despondent
with each other’s bones,
and the birds that have become
blades of vengeful silence.
I can hear the footsteps of the ocean
prowling the shore like a night watchman;
he is searching the corners of my sadness
for enemies of the dusk.
I know it is coming,
because the sun has fallen on her sword
and bleeds from an enormous waist.
And the earth is a mouth lapping at the purple pools
of her annihilated flame.
The night sits cross-legged outside my window,
and makes me want to flee these hands.
The night is a voice of orchards gently breaking my heart,
and I remember the small feet of a woman,
and how the night once touched them, like a wounded boy.
I don’t want the night to bring me this memory of desire.
I don’t want these nights of love to describe the ruins of my sky.
But the night sits cross-legged at my window,
and calls for me by an old name.