As my fingers slip into the night
like a hand into a glove,
stark and nude figures stand crouched,
hands and feet twisting into tree limbs,
gnarly knotted blackened hair
in the headlights of the car.
“Mourir” tumbles in my head,
for wailing’s no fun—the accident—
I cannot tell yet what became of him.
But in overwhelming darkness, bells toll
from yonder white cross—
The hour turns dark—darkness
rolls over my words like
waves but sometimes neon
light gleams through like
“Mourir Mourir Mourir” tumbling in my head
as the beginnings of a poem rattle all around—
silence shimmers; eyes do glimmer—
bells toll, bells toll.
I am one with the night,
silent shining groping—for one star,
hundreds of thousands of miles away—
come to me, o little star;
come let me touch you.
May I speak to you of a loved one
whose car went to dust?
Or shall I withstand this unknowing,
alongside velvet-shrouded occult?
For what is it but a night out for me?
And what untold hours of minions for him?