poem originally published in BFS Horizons
He woke up. His pupils dilated. He sneezed.
The Moon crept cold and bright into the room,
And he slipped out of bed unseen.
A solitary god, man, or beast of gloom,
Of Morningstar, of God–
Something between.
The landscape makes a mockery of the soul,
Or feels with it. Outside he stands and sniffs.
Luminous, great moths, heeding a silent call,
Rush up to greet him in benevolent drifts.
He tolerates it. Even smiles. Soft brushing laugh.
And Up, the fat Moon smiles with him, “Where have you been?”
Inside him, it stirs a wrath–
sight unseen.
The wild East wind, weltering inside his narrow chest
Produces the Howl, a cry to the Night’s eye
Of the interior lupine’s bittersweet success.
The world burgeons grey, as scratching pain
Spreads across his skin, every hair sprouts, lengthening.
His nose and mouth conjoin in a yearning to the sky,
On the doorstep to Nature–
wanting to die.
In the morning, he remembers bursts of feeling.
Terror and beauty. Long, sad songs. Swift white water,
And her gleaming hair. He saw her, stealing
Through the ruins of the wily wood,
Glancing back like coy prey, to where he stood,
Saliva slavering at the sight of her,
Untouchable and pale as the Moon–
his night’s killing.
Nightwalks 