Night Poem VIII

The night is a stained basin,
and a hot bulb that grins over me
like a hitman.

Down the drain come voices
of lead centuries,
of sexual hurt,
of girls in love with their eyes.

The pipes are clogged with
hair and bad love.

And the night holds me to the mirror
like another failed experiment,
the third this week,
like a cautionary tale for earnest youth.

Because the girl has left me,
because the night is terrifying and young,
I seek the medicine that brings the
heaviest lids,

I seek a way to become
new on the cold ceramic tiles.

The hours drip from me now,
the deepening acceptance
that nothing is waiting on either side of the divide
of night and mountain.

Shivering,
I rest my forehead on the
stained basin,
with a childlike desolation,
I wait for her,
I wait for exhaustion.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s