November Evening Quatrains

Fever Ray—Keep the Streets Empty For Me


November Evening Quatrains

Here’s what happens.
The planet spins into night.
The wind blows leaves round in a circle
under the stars’ ageing light.

Over the harbour,
the darkness hiding its white
wings, turning round in aimless circles,
a gull cries out in its flight.

The streets stay empty
in the long hours when the bright
moon is liable to press its pale circle
into flesh, spreading frost-bite.

All sounds get pitched higher
now—and that gull out there might
never be consoled till the flexing circles
of its throat close up tight.

Water swells, changes
to lacy friezes of starlight
sculpted round black holes galaxies circle
where all things fall into night.

About John MacKenzie

I'll mumble for ya. Poetry, plus most things quantifiable: science, neuroscience, memory, epistemology, baseball. And so on.
This entry was posted in Art is lies, Art is theft, Autumn, Charlottetown, Cosmology, Fever Ray, Gulls, Harbour, John MacKenzie, Language, New poems, Poem tweets, Poetry, Quatrains, Space, The Earth, The Moon, The Sea, Time, Winter and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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