Sometimes the night is still

Not a metaphor for life

Sometimes the tall grass near the brick walk isn’t waving

Sometimes the lamp post seems a silent automatic machine, that it is

The cracks and crevices in the stone walk remain empty, open

Sometimes at night the air sits still and tastes bland and there doesn’t have to be more to it

Sometimes, the cool pricks at my face and ears feels tame, hardly noticeable

Sometimes I can’t get good light to see the steam lazily fall out of my mouth

Sometimes there's cool november nights in which to observe is to fall into the canvas

Sometimes I enter the house to the dull light I left, and my face is redhot despite being cold to the touch

Sometimes the bed and a drink and my cats feel warm, easy, like home