Night's dark body seeping through
	the horizontal crack that splits
	the blue of royalty and powder
	and pink stained puffs hovering over corpse of daytime livelihood,
	a corpse of mercantile and industrial circulations
	and flexings closed down;
	a cessation happening in the flash of the Sun's descention into our slumber.
	A nighttime creeping, as a fog filters out all apparent to the eyes,
	but not to the ears, hands, tongue, heart, lungs.
	Time to rest our eyes and hurriedness to see
	where we are going... ought to go,
	what is before us and there
	for us, and where
	we have been. Time
	to listen and touch and breathe deep the cool leisured air
	of night, the dark fog's moisture that permeates streets and nostrils.
	But alas, before night even reaches yonder horizon, we assure...
	our eyes they will continue to see by our own imitations
	of daytime's pragmatic purpose arising through millions of short-lived
	disposable suns
	instantly appearing lining our streets and buildings and houses and rooms.
	Wasted body artificially illuminated - junky night.
Copyright 1998 John Feissel. All rights reserved.