Before Daylight

The silence has weight, but the coldness thins it—
And the knives of a few stars,
Hanging from their icy posts.
They seem as sentries unaware the war is over.
At least their mission abides, their nights in caves,
The challenges they issue—to the unknown,
To these stains of light, and shadow-streets,
Shaking rifle and bayonet.

When did cars become so squat and snub-nosed,
and so obedient—hunched and queued
along the curb, like oxen on their knees?
What was that thing that brought me here,
Where trees are dark sprockets against the night?
How did it happen—isn’t there a place
Where I am expected, where
I need to be employed, need to be?

It’s such a curious thing—insignificance.


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