Night

How cold the world becomes
so quickly
Even dawn is kinder
with her cautious stretching
over the shelf of the horizon
and we are unafraid
because she has made her long magic
in our midst and we are all guilty with her.
The night does not need our guilt
to exonerate, to let her free.
She is hungry and so she eats
each of the blinking lights
from each shelflike window
and licking her lips flows down the streets
singing her hunger song
and we shiver leaning back into doorways
unsure
if we are willing to risk the walk
because when she is done
with each of the little lights
sucked dry the swinging bulbs
and crunched her way through streetlamps
then she turns and comes
for us
with our warm heavy mouths
all full of sound and song
and the scent of something strange
like fear and bravado and freedom
something so close to her hymn
and she is unsure of us
a lion stumbled upon kittens
who show her their slender claws
and scream their small wails
against the indignity of insignificance
and she lifts her giant paw for silence
or perhaps for solace.
She is the fearsome freedom
sweeping through the streets
and he who throws his fate with her
sings a song of hunger and fear
and son of night becomes free
How cold the world becomes
when standing against the night.