by shaun lawton
The mantra of the moment becomes wick'd into
a slit-eyed candle flame within an instant
and before you know it creatures thought
familiar turn feral as they round a corner
of the street beneath the flickering lamplight
of a neighborhood ensconced within a Lucretian
crater of shadow because within these pockets
of concealed darkness, the entire world's order
of things works itself out in the dead of night
down rotten old alleyways, where you can still
hear the rattling echoes of kicked cans and worn out
hoary shouts to the winter gods, when the edge
of the primeval forest line sweeps up behind one
like a tide creeping up into their rearview mirror,
a visible whispered reminder that no matter how
far away you might escape, there's no releasing
the hold the night forest has on your soul.
