O silken, silken night

From tiled sanctuary
My steam rises
Up, out from crunkling bubbles
Cloaking me
In a universe of soap, quantum soup
Malleable as the oboe
Upstairs.

There, the player turns
Their instrument round
Upon me, crooning
“Silken, silken night,
O silken, silken night,
Who are we? For I, am.”

And all my world is edge-lit.

Plump of shadows, soft
Like candelight, and golden
Custardy, humourous, wet
My ceiling glistens and cranes
Its neck, communes
With the walls.

And together they listen
As one, eyes unseeing.

Pull this darkness to your windows,
They say.
A plum velveteen of night,
Pervasive enough
To quiet tenements, and
Tenements quieted
Tenants turn their ears,
Strain, to catch the flutiest tremor
The O’s of captured soul –

Prisoners of soul,
Fleeing in great outbursts
Sporadically, joyously
As the fledging chick takes flight.

Prisoners of soul,
Released upon our world
Of simple eve and the many-horned
Mutations of blues:
Silent commuters retiring from the beat
Lovers apart, friends reunited
Jet-lagged passengers shuffling feet,
O lonely moon, yellowed
In a sky thus benighted.

The player stops.

And in this water my heartbeat ripples.


A boiler wheezes to a sort of life
And bang! Baaang, bangbang!
Who harkens upon the door
Of the player? My player
(Fortune would have it)?

A messenger, there knocks,
Their knocks like Martin Luther,

Who hammered to that Gothic Kirk
The awakening of an aeon,
of aeons, countless of time.

My easy world
reminded of its other self.

Before I, before long,
Slip back into revery
And the player turns
Upon me, croons once more
“O silken, silken night,
I have found thee.”

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