And the night has to it, only now
the color, dry and tight, to it, a color
like gold, only blacker; like wood
only grained again with sleep,
and the heavy odor of what will turn
into a dream, or many dreams;
the soft earth seems to rise, its
teeth, like many words, are vegetal
and thick; night only seems to pass;
it has our eyes; slitted and still;
deepened birds darkly tumble in the
air; the air closes, opens,
turns to lightning; the
starry dark is wide

Victor Asaro

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