Something of the Last

Outside night
holds its breath
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.