Tuesday Poem

Green Midnight

Green midnight at the nightingale’s northernmost border. The heavy leaves
hang entranced deafening the automobiles’ rush towards some neon line.
The path of the nightingale’s voice is not beside the point. It is like a break-through,
like a rooster’s madness, but beautiful and without vanity. I was in prison
and it visited me. I was sick and it attended me. Then I did not heed it,
but I do now. Time’s stream flows down from the sun and moon through
the tick-tock, tick-tockings of all clocks.  But just here, no time exists – only
the nightingale’s voice.  It has the power to ring notes as polished as
the night sky’s scythe of light.

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