Oh, here it comes!
Here comes the night.

The silence it unfolds gives to meditation of the past,
Deliberation of its design,
The holdings of tomorrow's fates,
And the future-aftermath thought in store.

Cloaking both good and evil in a shield of dimness
So their secret acts gain opportunity in this privacy,
They are no longer unrevealed to the night.

The infinity unprotected in nights transposition
Is the peerless gift it cannot retain for itself.
The cycle of its lesser light bends tides, emotions, even passions.
This is the pathway to what the night may yield,
Yet, will not yield to me

For the copious delight of the night
Is not retrieved by way of aloneness.
In fact, it is the antithesis of belonging
That the night intensely illuminates.
It is the wound the impoverished settle
In the facade of nights frugality.

Curiously,
The night is actually the day curling inward on itself.
Defiant, except in its persistent opposition,
And is incessant in its unwelcomed arrivals.

It is not spotless, except in its intent and its absence.
Its magnificence is lost in the hollowness
Of the time it gives to me.
For it will not offer to me all it holds
And laughs to itself at the paleness of its deception.

In a dream unfettered in classical charity,
The night would not intend to support,
Or insinuate any bias in its injury.
But prefers to retreat into its self-corrective sovereignty
To excuse the piety of its irreverent favoritism.
For it's hunger is unto itself,
In reach of it's necessity to protect it's sanctum
Of invulnerability.

I plead that it would yield to me all of its engagement.

So all that lies beyond the majesty of the nights light
And all the sensation it stirs,
Would be filled in the serenity
That the days light asks me to slight.

Alone in the nights disconnection
My own grows too immediate and too familiar.
I appeal that the night would not restrain the loss of my segregation.
And relinquish to me its marvel when shared.
The night holds dear its featured items to explicit sharing
These are not it's exclusivity, but are its specialty.
The day exacts the cost of its sharing in the reluctance of the night.

In this is to be found the nights resemblance to the day.
Each is the other turned inward on itself.

When all is given without constraint,
Nether prevailing over the other,
All then is redeemed in the accord,
And none are left desolate -
Neither the night,
The day,
And none that ache for their undivided gifts.

For they are not separate
And are not meant to be.

March 13, 1995