Nightwalkers

Here in these lands of golden
airiness, no one understands
talk of the moon,
her melancholy rituals
of fog, cicada, dusky pearl.

Where there is no city
there are no walls moulding
with secret histories, only
past the movie-set neighbourhoods
there is shadow, patina,
chiaroscuro of your dark love
for this dying body of
once-cobbled streets &
pale, tremulous light,
of night’s death-rattle and echo.

Full stillness, sudden sounds,
night brings you
not so far from me.

Everyone’s in mourning –
even you, hood-drawn &
brooding in the labyrinth you’ve lived
all your life, where mystery is
memory theater –
ramshackle & without a stage. You take us
to the parking lot, and it is
the loveliest thing:
over the pall of asphalt is
this gossamer sky,
a plum beauty, jewel of unblinking eye.

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