“The Corners”
after Gaston Bachelard
Sometimes I imagine the corners
of a day or sometimes a month,
another year like mastering origami.
I prefer walking in cities where the streets
are named after philosophers.
Even the crows in Tokyo and Paris
seem to agree: We still live in a world
of questions. When I woke up
I was somewhere over the Black Sea.
“Until the Sun Comes Up”
Night is a cube
configured by imperfect silence,
defined by its dimensions
for the disenchanted.
Night is a hose
with which all shadows are beaten.
Night my old heart-throb
I can’t take my eyes off you.
Night is a lonely egg.
My offspring out of orbit.
We have nowhere else to go.
Night, be still.