The day has
transformed itself again
into that other,
hidden quality, where the blackness
is startling once it settles.
There is no moon to guide me,
only pale stars
with unknown origins.
When the large, white bird
glides through this darkness,
its sounds are harsh and foreign,
like a corroded wheel
turning and turning toward
some invisible depth.
This is the world
I pretend to know:
shadows
punctured by noise,
a performance
of evergreens that is
brutal and relieving,
the subtle pulse
that grows and grows
into something I cannot perceive.
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