The world is blue, now, again.

It is a cloud-night and a few bask lovely in the golden showers of streetlights,

Swathes of visibility for kamikaze moths.

Howling wind whipping clouds into grayness, sending the black-leaved arms of trees

Flailing, shuddering, entreating tendrils to an unseen moon.

There is a car parked who fades glaringly into this ocean of air and noise and confused clarity,

Of temporary endings, of past and future motion,

Who sprawls askew, asking permission to screech and storm the gates.

Break of sky and glimpse of sun, already fleeing behind the edge of the earth,

The night is false–these buzzing, flickering suns are false–

The dark is not broken but made more real.

The light is untouchable.

In this windswept, precipice calamitous moment,

God is here–

And He is terrible.