this night

this night is no longer
a smooth bright stone
comfortable to walk around
or to sit inside its soothing
velvet darkness in silence
to dream of love

rather, this night is jagged
shards of broken wine glasses
and shanks of rusty tin cans
old axles that smoothly turned
well oiled shafts and gears
to the wheel of love

this night is the remains
of cinders from far beyond
the range of melody and memory
a fine pollution easily stirring
to blacken tall verdant trees
and obscure the full round moon