By Robert Williams
The night’s insistent dark is stealing in,
drawing close to spirit us away
—a slow becoming dream until the end.
It’s written in her bones, and on her skin:
a language too articulate to say.
The night’s insistent dark is stealing in.
This universe is parallel, yet dim
as though it’s only conjured in your brain
—a slow becoming dream until the end.
And he can be her toy of molded tin
—pale, gray from little shoes up to the face.
The night’s insistent dark is stealing in
—stealthy, like a shark’s advancing fin,
as furtive as the farthest reach of space.
A slow becoming dream, until the end
starts showing up: like family, or a sin.
Like anything, it’s always changing shape.
The night’s insistent dark is stealing in,
a slow becoming dream until the end.