by Howie Faerstein
It happens in the dark,
reeling under the rotted eaves,
staring into blankness.
It happens carrying coffee grounds to the compost.
What an odd hour to be pressed by love.
It happens when the wind picks up
and unseen trees rustle
as contradiction takes the place
of stars in an insomniac sky.
Love, a thorn of light in otherwise blackest night.
Because of the gradualness that speaks of time,
as a thrush returns from death
after colliding with a window,
dawn washes out darkness with milk
like the faint blue cloud rising from your side of the bed.
For just one moment,
there, in a kind of clearing,
a season of inconsequence,
while sea smoke lifts from distant oceans
I stand in continuance,
a wolf tree,
feeding on the provender.