Night Poem XIV

I don’t want this voice of day
to follow me into the night.
I want a cabin in a clearing
beneath the broken river of stars,
far from love.
I am exhausted by my failed plans,
and the grandiosity of my youth,
my shadow like a wet and miserable dog.
In a clearing by a cabin
deep in the mountains,
there is a hole, deep and wide,
where I will bury the weight of this body.
And then I will give the stone my name
and toss it into the broken river.
And I will ply the bandit’s trade
with the outlawed night,
and like a stolen heart,
I will never return.


Your body, infinite,
is a mist in the perspiring dawn.
The dried up night still clings to your thighs,
a wasteland of sheets,
a torpid blood of completed lust.
The body scraped to the raw hour
leaves only a sun without longing.
A violence of incense
still revolves on the desolation of your chest.
But desolation has failed me,
language and night and the warmth of grass
have failed me,
and bodies are towers of burning mandolins.