of summer, and of night

Here is something I found while rummaging through digital files of words, a collection covering several years. Something from the heat of a summer I think.

dense-packed places

In places
more frequented by stars
Night is a vast and velvet thing-
An arcing mass, abyss
from which the wisps
of dreams are rent
or born — to which
their unreckoned ellipses return
at first light
or break of day-
Gifts to the morning star, forgotten.

But here in dense-packed places,
glowing gases trapped
Diffuse the spark of Heaven’s light
And night’s song
is not the breath of trees
nor sinuous tale
of crickets’ Morse
But an iron drone-
the hum of shapes
forged, not born
And nighttime, in dense places
closes in- a binding
in dust-filled quarters, corners
of space, repressed
In sleeplessness-

From which blurred dreams
at length release-
to memories- of light
sonorous blurs,
subconsciousness- and colors
that dissipate
And have no names,
In waking, nor in words.

© 2005 Elizabeth Daggar


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