Mild-Mannered Night

night shot 2

A few weeks ago, West Village penthouse

I love the mild-mannered night
Who treats me cordially, without slight.
She stoops down, so we walk together,
Like blue-brown birds of a feather.
She brushes my arm and smiles a smile
That gleams like a moon-lit mile
Of sharpened beer-bottle glass.
For in her still, Winter lingers
And its Stygian fingers
Still seek to clasp.

But Spring laughs–
Like fairy claps
A mild sound,
Full of round nouns
And dew-drop crowns
Woven of polymer-fiber dusk,
Slowly turning the sky to rust.

I wait on the overpass,
Watching laughing hobos pass a flask
We look to the bridge, winging softly away
Much more alive than it is in day
A string of of lights: no trucks, no sprawl
Just toll trolls and those transit buses that crawl,
Low and ravenous: glassy maws spread so wide
Howling up to that light-pollution sky.

I love these mild nights
Where each dark street is a new sight
Of houses lit with life inside.
When that old soul winter goes to hide,
Leaving Spring and me and the streets so wide–
Oh! Oh, for these mild-mannered nights.


Written last year near the GWB


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