Breathe in the starred black air, so you might
draw the quality of summer into the lungs before anyone else
can steal it,
for on cool, scent laden nights like these it seems necessary to become
possessive; this is human nature.
But you cannot ever possess the night ... and it has nothing to offer save sensation.
The earth tossed up oaks and dogwood and short grass long ago to hold in that
this story is only in the lift of the wind—
those guardians swell up the upside-down bell jar hills where you stand,
not quite containing the darkness so it flows ever upward and out.
The night’s sense of humor is this: in allowing the belief one can possess its
contain those artful symptoms which presage the beginning of a new day,
it reigns with reckless freedom.
No one can ever know, in truth, how far the stars expand beyond what one sees in
but always it seems that night extends out from the self, as if you
are in control.
Let the wind feel cool on your cheek, the pollen smell
sweetly of must,
the humidity settle acrid on the tongue, and then that tale of nighttime
may hint of some inescapable sense.
(comment on this poem)