Something of the Last
Outside night
holds its breath
threatening
to fold early.
Thunder crumbles
Into the sound of rain,
Blurring sidewalks
Into a labyrinth
Of ghostly altars.
Marooned in
the last moment of dark,
I rise in a vapor
an owl drifts with something of the last
fixed in her grasp.
Before the lights go on,
stars flex their dark selves
in words we will never understand;
and where the moon falls yellow
into an orange bed,
I am off,
my space uncut,
through dark kingdoms
bending to blow
the light from each star.