Against Night
Of God, I cry My body
and evening shows its back.
Not the voice of cherry trees
greets me, not the low weep
of buildings bending to
the discreet architects of this
looser dark. All around me
windows light softly
as though a thumb dusted
with gold had left its imprint
selectively, each a tepid blessing.
My thoughts tap themselves
out against the amber glass,
restive blue flames that flare
like tiny bodies and disappear.
Should I name these slender
privacies of the soul sorrow?
I prepare, with the rest, for
evening’s first expulsion.