Coming – Going?
The coming of evening on each campaign
is a blessing for exhuasted wings
flying to nests woven from darkness –
ships sailing slowly to sheltered coves.
The coming of silence at each campaign
is like the sudden descent of sleep
(‘Death’s second self’, they say)
when fear engulfs you again –
the tremor of a frog croaking froth
that oozes an echo to a deaf ear.
So the end of each campaign is marked
by the deafening applause of thunder
resounding between victory and defeat.
There the moon is an actress behind
a lace curtain woven from heavenly paths,
poised to perform her nightly dance.
* * *
The coming of morning in the rotting sky
above your home (Oh, what a heady show)
invites you to unpleasant adventures:
daylight opens every pore in your body
(Death’s first self, you say)
to nothingness.