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,