Thieves lurk in the dawn
Plucking stars
From the faded blackness.
Grins bloom
Along their wormy lips
And their nails glow
With the dust
Of the heavens.
Pockets full of crystal light,
They slink back to their burrows
Before day can catch
Them in the act. And they rest
Without sleep
Too eager
To see the next night
Raw and dry and
Empty. All the faces
They imagine
Stunned and silenced
By the heaviest dark,
While they snicker
Under ceilings decorated
With their spoils.
Though, the city’s fires
Burned back the shadows
And the night never
Seemed gentler,
Like a blanket
Of black wool
Woven to embrace the beating
Flames of the town
As its people settled
Into a sound, silent sleep.
He Who Wanders 