Deep Night

It's the glove pitching with the dark; It moves through the wings of a crying skylark. It storms through all your soul's language— It gapes from that bleak wreckage. It's the vault around these faint fences; It's a well more than barred senses. It's made of velvet, this uncommon black; It bleeds upon your passion on the rack. It's shifting the other side of light; Its place a mask for scars' pining blight. Its flowers all sinking down— It falls for me, because I'm found.