Have you ever noticed how sometimes at night
the street slowly skulks home up the hill, alone and
head down, whistling to itself,
because the moon went its own way, three blocks back.
I look up, at the corner,
and the boys are passing by in their loud cars,
loud lives going to parties
where girls are probably waiting,
in T-shirts and jeans,
with music and shoes and dreams
made in sizes just for them,
waiting for the bottles of beer
the boys will bring,
offerings of love for their doomed youth.
There in a moment,
continents of lives whirring past my quiet eyes.
Have you ever noticed how sometimes in the night,
the trees shrug their shoulders on street corners,
and bury their chins in bushy collars,
and whistle alone,
because the moon and the world and the dogs
have already quit,
are not listening anymore,
have slipped off to other parties.
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
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.
I rest my forehead on the
with a childlike desolation,
I wait for her,
I wait for exhaustion.
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.
Do I doubt the what that I am?
I, a strange seam in the secret streets.
I who barely am.
But feel how the night
wants me to be a thing,
how it brushes past me,
a cape of quickening ache,
silent, possessed with infinite touch,
that rouses me to seeing,
how it distinguishes me
from the tree and the fish.
It peels me from myself,
leaf by aching leaf,
scatters my pages
to the lost hours of the wind.
But I am, I am
dying, burning, being.
Night wants me to be a thing,
surrounded by the scent
the others secrete.
Their sexual sadness,
their lamented joy,
and the first and last breath and dream,
and then found again,
like a discovered moon.
Do I doubt the what that I am?
I’m not against my being alone.
I find quite enough company
in the strange hours of the self.
The sea fills me,
the dark trees fill me,
the lamp light on the street’s cape
the mad, joyous cries
of a city that doesn’t know me
And a Spanish guitar can be enough,
and the painful beauty of
in a corner of me
is an appeased dusk,
Alone the silence is an aroma
like exotic tea,
and I feel myself porous,
drifting out to meet it.
But it’s when I have to walk
from my used up day
into the empty night
that my soul breaks into
chunks of unbearable heavy bone.
The infinite sorrow of unshared fruit.
Where is the one who will receive
the gathered sparks
of my solitary sun?