interrogates whoever walks this shadow-lane, this hour not reserved for you: who are you to enter it? Orion's head over heels above the road, jewel-belt flinting starlight to fuel two eyes looking down from the air: beacons in reverse, since light pours in toward her appetite until she wings her noiseless outline between our rooftop and the stars, over this door and all the doors hidden in the grass: dreaming voles, firefly province, wasps in the palace they've hollowed under the hill. Mole resting his face against his splayed hands. Perch, blink. Pose the evening's question to the sleepless while the moon if there is one scatters islands on a field of ink. Who maps this? The owner of the night looks down to mirror and admit the hours before the upper vaults begin to lighten and recede. Did you hear what I said, a face looks down from the night? Did who hear me? Who reads this page, who writes it? Copyright © 2017 Mark Doty. Used with permission of the author. |
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