Morgan Michaels - The Night

Much can be said of the night-
its slow caravan of hours-
glyphs of chocolate smeared on wet, pink velvet;
black velvet
smeared with pink lipstick, its canvas punched
with small, silver holes, the stars
glinting like mirrors that catch in their glass
the humors of candles glinting;
utterly, utterly swept of polemic,
its hours all queued like patient horses at a Victorian funeral
harnasses close up, creaking,
soundless from distances,
creped, each, and nodding a black plume toward a certain horizon.

Quavery canopy pumped by the warmth of music
billowing, ballooning
to the riffs of a never-copyrighted duo for dove and siren-
you know it all, you do,
its crypts and villi, its mists, its yawning corner stores-
O numberless convenience stores of the night! Tears
turned to exclamation points,
Sheets left behind in damp, gray tangles,
Tawny eyes and bushy, black brows,
the moon its sole earring, whispering
in Spanglish 'Look here, look here, '-
all its golden fusions.

Much can be said of the night-
its barking ululations,
its aerial loops of doomed and sparkling wires
stretched invisibly dangling along the sky, or almost so;
its gunfire,
its sudden, brief and mystifying shrieks,
its zombie wheels, contrariwise turning within other, larger wheels,
its pearls, its walkers, its subways;
moirees, its sad, strange Doppler stuff, its dizzying
stops, recoveries and beginnings.
Much can be said about the night,
and much cannot.

Morgan Michaels

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-night-94/