Bells

an elegy for darkness

 

If the night had a voice,

it would echo like bells

to drive mad all who would

hide from their fears

in pools of electric daylight.

 

The candle knows its place;

it leaves space in the corners

for shadows.

 

The bells toll for darkness

murdered by streetlights;

for mystery rendered mundane.

The bells toll for children

with no dark to face,

for monsters forced under beds

and into the heads of parents.

 

Who will hold the darkness dear?

Cup it in your palms

like powdered bliss,

a kiss of mist in the

hour before dawn when the

shadows become you,

and if you have

an ounce of sense, you sleep.

 

For the sleepless and the senseless

the night has fearsome gifts,

delivered on flapping batwings -

scatters of pollen on upturned faces,

dustings of powder,

blessings of bliss and grace.

 

When dawn has cracked its whip

and gilded your breast and thighs,

the treasure will be held

safe in its secret cave

where the sun never shines.