Tonight, the dark field is so thick-tangled
with mud and grass, my feet feel tied to ground.
On the other side, a row of bare trees
is silhouetted against a night sky
only faintly flecked with lights less than bright.
Beyond stark trees is only sound. Roaring
perhaps of a train passing by. Later
the long howl of its whistle bending down.
The empty distance between here and there
seems filled with echoes of roaring even
as it fades. Behind me, wheels of unseen
cars hiss over blackness of wet asphalt.
Rainwater cascades urgently over
sidewalks, into gutters, carving itself
shapes as perfect as stone, as if
they will never cease to be glassy arcs.
Slower than heartbeats of whales, nightcrawlers
pulse from edge to edge, drawing crooked lines.
They are thick as sticks, they are delicate
as grace. They pause, stop, and then start again,
even slower. The world around dims down
into a slow drifting, blurring. Inside,
I can finally hear the pitched shivering
of nerves, high sweet vibrations, eloquent
as light, shimmering like sugar, crystal
voices and clouds woven as dense as what
used to be my dreams. I hear them singing …