Sister, don’t look out, the nights are drawing in,
Keep your eyes from the bleeding light,
The crushed body of the day.
We should not, ever, look too long into the (dying) sun.
Pull the curtains, feel the thick velvet, see the folds
Fall heavily, dreamily into their appointed place,
The sherry awaits, sweet night’s liqueur.
Close the door, the moths are getting in,
Seduced and unprotected, they spin up into the
Lights we heavy-shaded into duskened lustre,
Whirring, flapping, burning.
Whatever happened, sister, to our loves, so soon departed?
Death is desertion. Each night we lie in our beds, alone,
Only the tick-tocking of clocks mocking. An owl,
Perhaps. The world at a distance.
Copyright © Paul James