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I woke to more rain, and felt in the dark for how wet the sill was, then rolled back to my radio, and a midnight preacher in my earphone teaching about sin. I learned that punishment would come like lightning that surprises an innocent shore. Thunder would follow me all my days, stern reminder and sharp rebuke. The long, sleek, and pointed call that rose, as if in response, out of the estuary of night and storm, said it knew well what the given world gave, and wanted more.

Late in the cold night wakened, and heard wind, And lay with eyes closed and silent, knowing These words how bodiless they are, this darkness Empty under my roof and the panes rattling Roughed by wind. And so lay and imagined Somewhere far off black seas heavy-shouldered Plunging on sand and the ebb off-streaming and Thunder forever. So lying bethought me, friend, What traffic ghouls have, or this be legend, In low inland hollows of the earth, under Shade of moon, the night moaning, and bitter frost; And feared the riches of my bones, long given Into this earth, should tumble to their hands. No girl or ghost beside me, and I lonely, Remembering gardens, lilac scent, or twilight Descending late in summer on that town, I lay and found my years departed from me, And feared the cold bed and the wind, absurdly Alone with silence and the trick of tears.

We undid a button, turned out the light, and in that narrow bed we built the great city— water towers, cisterns, hot asphalt roofs, parks, septic tanks, arterial roads, Canarsie, the intricate channels, the seacoast, underwater mountains, bluffs, islands, the next continent, using only the palms of our hands and the tips of our tongues, next we made darkness itself, by then it was time for dawn and we closed our eyes and counted to ourselves until the sun rose and we had to take it all to pieces for there could be only one Brooklyn.

The night never wants to end, to give itself over to light. So it traps itself in things: obsidian, crows. Even on summer solstice, the day of light’s great triumph, where fields of sunflowers guzzle in the sun— we break open the watermelon and spit out black seeds, bits of night glistening on the grass.

Woman, place your soothing hands upon my brow, Your hands softer than fur. Above us balance the palm trees, barely rustling In the night breeze. Not even a lullaby. Let the rhythmic silence cradle us. Listen to its song. Hear the beat of our dark blood, Hear the deep pulse of Africa in the mist of lost villages. Now sets the weary moon upon its slack seabed Now the bursts of laughter quiet down, and even the storyteller Nods his head like a child on his mother’s back The dancers’ feet grow heavy, and heavy, too, Come the alternating voices of singers. Now the stars appear and the Night dreams Leaning on that hill of clouds, dressed in its long, milky pagne. The roofs of the huts shine tenderly. What are they saying So secretly to the stars? Inside, the fire dies out In the closeness of sour and sweet smells. Woman, light the clear-oil lamp. Let the Ancestors Speak around us as parents do when the children are in bed. Let us listen to the voices of the Elissa Elders. Exiled like us They did not want to die, or lose the flow of their semen in the sands. Let me hear, a gleam of friendly souls visits the smoke-filled hut, My head upon your breast as warm as tasty dang streaming from the fire, Let me breathe the odor of our Dead, let me gather And speak with their living voices, let me learn to live Before plunging deeper than the diver Into the great depths of sleep.

Night is a cistern. Owls sing. Refugees tread meadow roads with the loud rustling of endless grief. Who are you, walking in this worried crowd. And who will you become, who will you be when day returns, and ordinary greetings circle round. Night is a cistern. The last pairs dance at a country ball. High waves cry from the sea, the wind rocks pines. An unknown hand draws the dawn’s first stroke. Lamps fade, a motor chokes. Before us, life’s path, and instants of astronomy.

The night is darkening round me, The wild winds coldly blow; But a tyrant spell has bound me, And I cannot, cannot go. The giant trees are bending Their bare boughs weighed with snow; The storm is fast descending, And yet I cannot go. Clouds beyond clouds above me, Wastes beyond wastes below; But nothing drear can move me; I will not, cannot go.

Disturbed at 2 a.m. I hear a claw scratching the window, tapping at the pane, and then I realise, a broken branch, and yet I can’t turn back to sleep again. Slowly, not to wake you, I get up, thinking of food, perhaps a quiet read. A cockroach runs across the kitchen floor, its lacquered shell as quick and dry as seed. Outside the chalice lily lifts its cup in adoration to the mirrored moon, full of purpose as it trembles there, collecting drops of moisture on its spoon. Noises of the night, it’s all alive, birds shifting in the steady trees, slugs and snails eating fallen flowers, a moth freighted with fragilities. Nocturnal life, the other side of things, proceeding whether we observe or not, like rows and rows of brown coastal ants transporting food from here to another spot.

Night is deep in a dark box deep in a cushion of down nestled in tissue tied with ribbons Night is asleep in the dark Night wakes with curious paws wakes in a furry fog wrestles the tissue nibbles the ribbons Night is awake in the dark Night tumbles in velvet directions tumbles along to your bed sniffing your wishes wagging your worries Night is a friend in the dark

Night Magic (Blue Jester), 1988, by Carlos Almaraz After Federico García Lorca Blue that I love you Blue that I hate you Fat blue in the face Disgraced blue that I erase You lone blue Blue of an alien race Strong blue eternally graced Blue that I know you Blue that I choose you Crust blue Chunky blue Moon blue glows that despise You — idolize you Blue and the band disappears Blue of the single left dog Blue of the eminent red fog Blue that I glue you to me You again and again blue Blue blue of the helium Bubble of  loveloss Blue of  the whirlwind The blue being again Blue of the endless rain Blue that I paint you Blue that I knew you Blue of  the blinking lights Blue of  the landing at full tilt Blue of  the wilt Flower of  nightfall Blue of  the shadow In yellowed windows Blue of the blown And broken glass Blue of the Blue Line Underlines in blue Blue of the ascending nude Blue before the blackness Of  new blue of our winsome Bedlam Blue of the blue Bed alone: blue of the one Who looks on blue of what Remains of cement fall Blue of the vague crescent Ship sailing blue of the rainbow Of  wait blue that I whore You — blue that I adore you Blue of the bluest door Blue my painted city In blue (it blew.)