Long-Feared Night

Eyes half-shut, you are seeing,
unseeing to house the failing light.

When the tornado writhes down, will
you come to clean the rubble?

And splash the bird, the sky in purple?

I am afraid of myself
to explore the craft of non-living.

When the silence descends, I will
know myself, like the bone of Buddha.

The words will not give
any relief, whipped into terror.