Much can be said of the night- <br />its slow caravan of hours- <br />glyphs of chocolate smeared on wet, pink velvet; <br />black velvet <br />smeared with pink lipstick, its canvas punched <br />with small, silver holes, the stars <br />glinting like mirrors that catch in their glass <br />the humors of candles glinting; <br />utterly, utterly swept of polemic, <br />its hours all queued like patient horses at a Victorian funeral <br />harnasses close up, creaking, <br />soundless from distances, <br />creped, each, and nodding a black plume toward a certain horizon. <br /> <br />Quavery canopy pumped by the warmth of music <br />billowing, ballooning <br />to the riffs of a never-copyrighted duo for dove and siren- <br />you know it all, you do, <br />its crypts and villi, its mists, its yawning corner stores- <br />O numberless convenience stores of the night! Tears <br />turned to exclamation points, <br />Sheets left behind in damp, gray tangles, <br />Tawny eyes and bushy, black brows, <br />the moon its sole earring, whispering <br />in Spanglish 'Look here, look here, '- <br />all its golden fusions. <br /> <br />Much can be said of the night- <br />its barking ululations, <br />its aerial loops of doomed and sparkling wires <br />stretched invisibly dangling along the sky, or almost so; <br />its gunfire, <br />its sudden, brief and mystifying shrieks, <br />its zombie wheels, contrariwise turning within other, larger wheels, <br />its pearls, its walkers, its subways; <br />moirees, its sad, strange Doppler stuff, its dizzying <br />stops, recoveries and beginnings. <br />Much can be said about the night, <br />and much cannot.<br /><br />Morgan Michaels<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-night-94/
