The Unnamed Black of Night

deep
jet black
evening
I’m settled on a trampoline
noting in my mind
how the liquid in the air distills
as if the mason jar of time,
once filled with ice,
is now sweating onto my skin
slowing sound,
slowing light,
slowing the imaginary workers as they dig
permanent creases along my mouth;

I’m feeling the pull of the
synthetic fibers across the hair on my arms
each catch cueing a new loop
remembering memories
creating times and images
in my infinite, racetrack mind
things that never happened
derived from my unspoken conversations
taken from dialogues that I have never had
never wanted to have
always wanted to have
imagined having before I had them

and the unnamed black of night
sits above my head
a dome covering everything

all problems:
mortgages,
student loans,
aborted children,
dropped ice cream cones,
the endless inanity of the average work week,
high fructose corn syrup,
the slow degradation of value of the american dollar,
carbon monoxide emissions,
cavities.

Night covers everything.

All solutions:
the laughter of a newborn baby,
the freedom of music,
unending love given freely and without hesitation,
a first drop of rain on skin,
sweet smell of sweat,
how books smell when thumbed through,
imagination’s ability to see the impossible in clouds,
the inevitable passing of time,
color.

Night covers everything.

Under evening, there is no bias,
only the purity of spilled india ink
and the occasional distant polka dot of
something burning
thousands of years ago.

This evening
this jet
this pitch
this ink
this unnamed, deep-set, blackness
has crawled away from me
from who I thought I could ever become
has taken a small part of my internal dialogue
and spread it thin
across the dome of this
ticking, twelve-hour, portion of the day.

I am watching it writhe between myself
and what is so long ago,
an embryo of conversation around the world
coccooning the human race,
letting me know that all things
continue to change and grow
regardless of my existence.