Night Poem


This is the season of nothing,
of standing in the yard on the dry
leaves and the tired grass,
feeling a slight wind from
the northeast. It is November.
Frost begins to form along
the top of the fence; how elegant,
the night’s white monogram I press
my finger into, then touch my lips
for the sensation of cold.
The stars are large
and gorgeous, and I am happy.
I have no desire for anything but
this perfection, and to die gathered
under night’s dark, tight wing.