66 Night poems

Last night tossed in my bed the sound of the rain turned me around, a leaf in a dried gully from side to side, the sound of the rain took me apart,        opened to                 what is it? breath caught in memory of a deep sweetness that sound unceasing delicate,                the wetness running through my body It might be nighttime in a forest hut, the rain constant in little rivulets splashing, at times uncertain— safe in each other's arms, the rain sheltering us       a depth opening bottomless to a terrible sweetness, the small rain shaking us in our bed (the terror) whispering End of a season, wind from the west new york, 1982

Sleep, she will not linger: She turns her moon-cold shoulder. With no ring on her finger, You cannot hope to hold her. She turns her moon-cold shoulder And tosses off the cover. You cannot hope to hold her: She has another lover. She tosses off the cover And lays the darkness bare. She has another lover. Her heart is otherwhere. She lays the darkness bare. You slowly realize Her heart is otherwhere. There's distance in her eyes. You slowly realize That she will never linger, With distance in her eyes And no ring on her finger.

1 In the evening haze darkening on the hills, purple of the eternal, a last bird crosses over, ‘flop flop,’ adoring only the instant. 2 Nine years ago, in a plane that rumbled all night above the Atlantic, I could see, lit up by lightning bolts jumping out of it, a thunderhead formed like the face of my brother, looking down on blue, lightning-flashed moments of the Atlantic. 3 He used to tell me, “What good is the day? On some hill of despair the bonfire you kindle can light the great sky— though it’s true, of course, to make it burn you have to throw yourself in ...” 4 Wind tears itself hollow in the eaves of these ruins, ghost-flute of snowdrifts that build out there in the dark: upside-down ravines into which night sweeps our cast wings, our ink-spattered feathers. 5 I listen. I hear nothing. Only the cow, the cow of such hollowness, mooing down the bones. 6 Is that a rooster? He thrashes in the snow for a grain. Finds it. Rips it into flames. Flaps. Crows. Flames bursting out of his brow. 7 How many nights must it take one such as me to learn that we aren’t, after all, made from that bird that flies out of its ashes, that for us as we go up in flames, our one work is to open ourselves, to be the flames?

Side by side through the streets at midnight, Roaming together, Through the tumultuous night of London, In the miraculous April weather. Roaming together under the gaslight, Day’s work over, How the Spring calls to us, here in the city, Calls to the heart from the heart of a lover! Cool to the wind blows, fresh in our faces, Cleansing, entrancing, After the heat and the fumes and the footlights, Where you dance and I watch your dancing. Good it is to be here together, Good to be roaming, Even in London, even at midnight, Lover-like in a lover’s gloaming. You the dancer and I the dreamer, Children together, Wandering lost in the night of London, In the miraculous April weather.

The dark streets are deserted, With only a drugstore glowing Softly, like a sleeping body; With one white, naked bulb In the back, that shines On suicides and abortions. Who lives in these dark houses? I am suddenly aware I might live here myself. The garage man returns And puts the change in my hand, Counting the singles carefully.

After the last bulletins the windows darken And the whole city founders readily and deep, Sliding on all its pillows To the thronged Atlantis of personal sleep, And the wind rises. The wind rises and bowls The day’s litter of news in the alleys. Trash Tears itself on the railings, Soars and falls with a soft crash, Tumbles and soars again. Unruly flights Scamper the park, and taking a statue for dead Strike at the positive eyes, Batter and flap the stolid head And scratch the noble name. In empty lots Our journals spiral in a fierce noyade Of all we thought to think, Or caught in corners cramp and wad And twist our words. And some from gutters flail Their tatters at the tired patrolman’s feet, Like all that fisted snow That cried beside his long retreat Damn you! damn you! to the emperor’s horse’s heels. Oh none too soon through the air white and dry Will the clear announcer’s voice Beat like a dove, and you and I From the heart’s anarch and responsible town Return by subway-mouth to life again, Bearing the morning papers, And cross the park where saintlike men, White and absorbed, with stick and bag remove The litter of the night, and footsteps rouse With confident morning sound The songbirds in the public boughs.

Although the wind blows terribly here, the moonlight also leaks between the roof planks of this ruined house.

The blue hour before dark when the light hasn't decided to leave but it's going i love the going more than the gone the in-between has more color

Late october night the air has a smell leaves and something colder underneath i stood outside for twenty minutes not doing anything just being in the air that smells like this

i kept watch over nothing for hours window to ceiling to window but keeping watch is its own purpose i think the watched night is not alone