NIGHT

        The night is a harsh encroachment;
        It afflicts the eyes whose lids
        Like iron muscles abruptly are
        Forced to close to extinguish
        That abrasive light which moves
        With the speed of sudden pain.
        It is a dark which seeps blindly
        Under door jambs and glides
        Effortlessly through panes
        or transoms into the clear visions
        Of our lives. There are no noticeable
        Pastels to notice like imperceptible
        Gestures of love and sorrow observed
        From a safe distance. Sometimes
        Light is so violent against the
        Dark, it can only be contained
        Within deceptively tightened pupils.
        It is then that the eye shuts down
        That sense begins to mount fences
        That any illumination
        Approaching those dark holes
        We call sight.

Copyright © Herbert Woodward Martin, 2003.  All Rights Reserved.