Night, Main St

When the sun gutters

and dies down,

and night comes on,

and doves settle

to the honey locust,

when each pink and

violet clematis closes

its shutters

along Vine Street,

and bicycles fall to rest

and nightshades open,

the numinous thread

which holds us

to this world

unspools and let's go,

is it the invisible

lunar tides which flow

through the clouds

and draw us up,

into the spring air?

Is it the wind at vespers?

Or is it the animals

of desire waking

in their warm burrows

and rising that call

softly to us to

come out this night?

 

--M deO

 

Done