A Poem: For Love of the Night

When the night feels, it feels first
the setting of the sun; it feels first vulnerable.
Night, lost lover. She watches the moon and pines
for the flesh of dawn,
for the tumbling of heat-
the crashing photons of sun to the cool earth, like
the passionate crashing of bones to passionate meat, the friction of abrading souls.

This article appears in August 2012.