Night Feels So Much like Losing You
So why are the red streaks of the falling sun
like cuts down my arm?
Why do my old allies, the shadows,
press down on my skin like bruises?
And what about the moon…
would-be chaperon of my teenage years…
now straddling my back like a hump,
or filling my mouth with
the raw vinegar of facile light.
Night denies the rug its roses,
hustles detail into shapes,
severs the window from the world.
So why does coming darkness
gorge itself on lips and bellies,
on the quiet blossoms of the human face
where it masquerades defiantly as the soul.
Sure, flick on a switch,
but what does a light bulb know
about rooms and crystal,
dining tables, photographs and sterling?
A curious human invention, electricity.
It’s a photograph of day
and I’ve long since exhausted photographs.
John Grey’s latest book is “What Else Is There” from Main Street Rag. He has been published recently in Agni, Worcester Review, South Carolina Review and The Pedestal.