THE NIGHT ME
The night me when the shadows
get to advance on their own
without the handwriting of the light
to divide them
moves deeper alone
into the boundless intimacy
within and without
of a yielding abyss
where you can always tell time
by the smoke of burning leaves
and everything, even the most banal,
is charged with a sense of secrecy
like an injured bell.
The spooling and uncoiling of the nightstreams
follow their own life-themes through the darkness
like distant train whistles in the rain
or geese returning in the spring high overhead.
And I am tempered by the sorrow of my own abeyance
like a window that’s been true to too many eyes
who’ve never known beauty
without longing and lies.
And the ashes are not old
and the fire is not new
and nothing is abandoned
like a ghost with a point of view.
The fountain returns
to the watersheds of its awareness
and I’m walking on the stars that schooled me
like a truant road to read maps between the life-lines
on the palm of my hand.
No beginning, no end,
I don’t think of the wind
as a streetcleaner
and vaster than the sublime
and I am what happens to time.