ebbing light attracts us to the edge
of time, of earth, of day, of youth
the end of everything
the in-between, dusk, that word
a gateway into the unknown
we snap photos, pose with friends
try to capture something always lost
that we can never quite hold
Tag: Night
Roadkill
quiet road
at night
when headlights
cease, time
of possum
raccoon and
the skunk
they wander
on asphalt
journeys, while
we sleep
they sniff
and scurry
when the
moon is
full or
waning, under
stars and
foggy skies
they are
out there
yet unseen
but come
morning sometimes
stiff dead
bodies, and
we just
swerve, in
a hurry
Timeless Universe
i’m not trying to write a good poem
this is just playful, holding a flashlight,
watching words appear on a page like
reading The Hobbit as a kid, and i can
do this, sometimes pausing to notice
shadows where dark becomes light,
a bright circle, where meaning emerges,
my handwriting, this timeless universe,
in quiet night
How Nature Works
glistening grass with morning
dew, like a spider web
pulsating, wind whipping, sticky
threads catch life, then
death, how nature works
constant miracles, colors, petals
insects submerged in nectar
pollen dust travels, floating
on bees feet, sun
greets this day with
warmth for all, moon
at night, bright dreams
silent stars, flickering light
Porcupine
glistening needles
high beam light
soft snow
falling on
Umbria mountain
we freeze
this moment
black cactus
scurries
into night
Grad School Late Night
12am, my usual quitting time, when the
Cherry Coke has run out and I’m done
munching on plain M&M’S, and whatever
I’m writing or reading starts to repeat over
and over, telling me the night is complete.
But sometimes I have to push the clock back,
mix water in with the caffeine and sugar, stay
hydrated, which leads to bathroom, me walking
empty hallway corridors after 2am, maze of fluorescent
lit academia, everyone else sleeping, sleeping.
I turn off my ghosts are real imagination
and focus on whatever I’m thinking about,
Ambrose O’Higgins or some other obscure figure
from South America’s past, when turning the corner
on my way back to study, he screams, I scream.
A freaked out bearded janitor and me like looking into a
mirror seeing myself older with blotchy skin, but same
expression of holy mother of, until we both figure it out and
smile, laugh in fright, then wordlessly walk past each other
into the building’s vacant night.
Daniel W. Polk 