Night might be the collection of unfocused breaths released in sleep – drawn from the echo-chamber of unconscious thought.

You have become extraordinary, small house – for in the night, in the morning, in the twilight moment when I’m not sure I should turn on the lights – you are a conduit of living, all good and true hours happen in you.

Along the edge of the large darkness pushes the first red line, come to snuff the street lights and string the cold-weather birds along their dotted-line flight toward morning places.

I know the hour of the stars. When the light in the west lowers, day falls beneath the black stone night places over this running field.