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werewolf
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and the night on all sides without sides
is damningly vast
and so indifferent as to make
one beg and resent
in one same dark-wine laden question -
is it right to feel
so heavy and inconsequential -
inconsequential-
the night as a abstract noun,
as in the other night -
at a distance our mind retains
heavy-
and the night as in drowning, the womb, the black death,
crying and discussing
in rooms that line it like
honeycombs and catacombs
as liminal as stars -
the nearness the mind has no means to divorce itself of.
one dark-wine laden question
among a sea of the like,
the tarry sweltering lungs
that breath in the entire sky
while most sleep -
what is this night, where does it go when it goes?
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050213
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