The Contentment of Night

Blanket night staves the empty; entwined with
feeling, the moment trembles
like dust, sweet windswept rush I
sense, becoming, roaring open as a rose
—so silent, so still, pleasant but
lonely but
making, like architecture, like
instruments like
Sagrada, slow, building, ambling through time
without nerves
quaking; the dark, is fine,
in being


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