NightLine

I.

Dim above and beyond them all,

folding further it craves clouds

as nutriment.

It will entice them: disembodied, yet

it has a black and white sketch

ready for each and all.

II.

The young girl shudders and folds further

into her thin, dim nightgown as her hand

inelegantly scours the door and finally

yields, her body quickly disappearing into

the open car.

Night air turns intangibly electric as a

single twist of the key accords a myriad of

tiny blue- red- white lights, a concert from

the inside, a ritual of protection from the outside.

Notes on The NighFlight ring crystalline clear in

her ears as she slowly slips into unconscious

peace- the house and its motherly malevolence

cannot touch her here. Angrily glaring

just beyond the lawn, it is not human.

Right now, the car is.

III.

Between Hillsdon Rd. and Apparition Dr.

a snowflake parades. It leads

as on its own, and craves filing

its nails against your porch, all

night long.

Fast, it falls from the night clouds but

then the air - it feels intangibly

electric.

Afraid to burn too quick, it rushes the backdoor

window and slides sideways, ready for action.

IV.

Disillusioned, a clerk of average skill and even

less prowess, indentured to a credit institution whose

name at times he couldn’t utter himself, has a

curious pastime on the commute home, every day

between 19.30 and 20.43: he wedges his head in

between his left hand and window - and looks outside.

He likes not to be seen in almost all circumstances,

but only there he can do so with power.

He can be disembodied eyes, I’m here

and I know you but you can’t feel

me. In my mind, I have power over you.

Yet, tonight it is different. The snow by the wayside

is already spurring a desperate, relinquishing grey and

most windows are sealed black. A twist and

rumble of the tram car,

yet it is different. His eyes are

already closing, the wedge falling apart. As he

slips into unconscious peace, far in the distance a car door slams shut.

V.

Though I am safe below my duvet I suddenly think

there is something terrifying about the very idea

of living in a house – of living.

The permanent uneasiness of disembodied

eyes looms against the windowpane; at any given time

I can still be harmed.

I giggle nervously and fold further

within my duvet. What Friedrich saw in a

monk and the seashore violates me

within my very own nest.

VI.

There, brother! he dashes forward and wraps his frozen

hand around the sculptured forms of a streetlamp,

consuming desire, sliding in circles faster and faster as if the halting of universal entropy entirely depended

on his enticing that frivolous gal, night breeze.

Humming, a line of trucks stuck at a red light or

maybe a tram subdued far off, thanks - but I would

just like to sit here and look at his quick

body fast slivering, his ghost already part extracted,

donning a dewey spacesuit poised for launch.

The frozen hand detaches and he hits the curb full force, ready for action.

VII.

The one difference between

a January night

and any other night is that

you

are not there.

Yet, I know for sure

a part of

this nervous slumber is

in you.