2 September 2002 | Vol. 2, No. 3
The Night Is Thinking and Eating
The night's clean ink is interrupted by tendrils,
by ideas with robust reality,
but verdant with symbol and meaning.
Dark little scribbles zag, then zig, in insane orbit
of an electric goddess porch light,
while the velvety black mouth around them yawns
with a voice
like a prehistoric seashell pressed
to the ear of a sleeping planet.
Moths, crumpled scraps of beige-brown velvet,