The night is glossy
living encased in
black-marble
silence.

The night is a
stone cutter
chiseling gloom
into strange
light.

The night is a
voyage we take
into otherness
with our feet
upon the
mortal land.

The night is
drunk on itself
and it lives,
enshrined,
in a vast and
miniscule
Now.

It venerates lovers
who decree:

I will love
who I love
through all
my dream-lives,

through the
angelic sorrow
attached to me
like the jelled,
summer air,

through the
lifespan of the
glacial moon,

through heartbeats
so fast they
could be
humming ghosts,
high frequency
and untamed,

and finally
beyond some
abandoned grief,
almost shining
like a
frosted rose.

In this splinter
of no-time,
in the
soft-burning
eyes of God,
there are no
insignificant
beings,

just this singular
everything,
just this
unutterable love

like a fever of stars:
countless spirits,
one Light.


Patricia Joan Jones