Late Autumn nights are like the secure discomfort
Of the subway or the long dark of the tunnel
Or (so I imagine) the mossy grave, holding
Down the body like a trapped spark in the
Hood of a lantern; a light felt but not emitted.
And so when sleep is broken by a sudden
Cry of a child, your child, and the life in that
Cry impacts night’s dark restraining hand
It fractures spiraling out in tiny perforations that
Buckle and twinkle like a guttering star.