In the quiet alcove of the darkness
lurking wild above my bed,
and in the soporific hush of night-lights
pressing on the black,
I rend my eyes and swallow bits of
there, a stiff supine and yet
digesting day, I wade with God:
what good did i do when good i didn’t know?
whose heart did i tear, if just a bit,
and then went on to break
what majesty swam in between
my childish fits and snores?
when did the promise drown?
i hear the rush of latent winds outside my door,
and they are poor, I think, and late:
too late to catch the playground laughter,
too late to quell a fiery argument,
too slow to mount the trees.
and i smell the faint burning on
the air as i cross myself and heave,
perhaps releasing whatever much of me
is dead, perhaps just again to breathe.
there, in the morbid processional of night,
i remember that i said ‘thank you’ once today,
though i’m sure it wasn’t heard.
that will have to be enough to
make me right with God today, I wonder
as i wade, drying off my sin;
that will have to be enough to keep me, God,
these seconds in the land of darkness
where night-lights bubble, burst,