With stars so close I could reach out
and pluck one from sky
and eat it whole

and lucid dreams where I tease reality
into shapes that fit
my fancy,
tailoring unconsciousness into building me
my own empires
which I rule from my pillow;
night gives me power.

The whispers of cricket's violins
seep through night air like
bubbles in honey,
black trees reaching black fingers across a
butter-periwinkle sky.

I like flowers better when I catch them in their
beauty rest,
heads bowed and shoulders slouched
into the earth,
more graceful in their slumbers
that in the garish day
when they compete against each other for attention,
now they bask their bare limbs in the glow of
night,
naked and vulnerable
their mouths lolling open with their snores.

At night
the trees turn into giants
that I dodge between the streetlights,
outrunning thick silence
that splashes at my heels,
everything's a mystery at night.