Poem by Ann Tardiff
The night oozes a pale artificial light
That breeds and gathers and leaps off the ground,
Only to slither under my door at midnight
To wish me goodnight. Dreamers, unsound,
Gather fat, fat, thoughts to crystallize,
To shove into green bottles,
That get sent north to advise
The tumbleweeds waiting for Aristotle.
Eyes grow awake and dilate.
A camera zooms. Neither see
Pink sea foam and words that fail to participate
In the rustle of a slimy memory.
Black meets iris. The night leans forward to consider this:
Our roads- though rough- are endless.