Night comes to me.
It stands there, brandishing
long sticks,
walking on the ears of crickets,
on the pin points of dew.
It shaves the grass as it comes,
swathes the moon,
brushes away everything
with the blood-intimacy of the dark.
Like the hob goblin stars
in the interstices of the sky
I hide my weakness from the dynamo in the night.
Monkeys torment each other in their cages
in silence, mouths open, screaming from withdrawal pains
The night goes by, with its eyes averted.
