By Jill Jones
What remains of us at night
The weight of respiration
the insects we swallow
the division of thought into
chemical haze
Far off there are holdfasts
lee shores, maybe an anchor
or a compass
Leaves disturb the concrete
while my eyelashes quiver
What memory might be dug up
by wind or an earth tremor
a lost goodbye on a path
as clouds move
in and out of the suburb
A breeze fumbles over
old cottages
and mansions
There’s a band of stars
aching above the backyard
A succession of vehicles
roars away or comes too close
I don’t know if this is
a night dream
or a morning dream
Some nights collude with
the galaxy’s old glow
They can be remote
as indifference
or have metal and darkness