Literature
Athine
There is a doorway to a kind of night you are,
your breath rising and falling, the profile of wind,
forms and shadows covering the field, how things react
differently there, like the moon, shedding its binary beat.
You say words are finer and more awful with the solitude
of night, that when you climb the outer cliffs the world is fully lit
behind you. Maybe the stars flicker, maybe a mist falls
from the mountains like silky verse,
but clouds are still the reservoirs of history - heaven
disappearing into its own infinite funnel.
I know this the way I know our voices will be classified
as a metatextual tear in morning, the holes in o