Volume 4, October 2011

Quinn LatimerView Contributor’s Note

Against Night

Of God, I cry My body
and evening shows its back.

Not the voice of cherry trees
greets me, not the low weep

of buildings bending to
the discreet architects of this

looser dark. All around me
windows light softly

as though a thumb dusted
with gold had left its imprint

selectively, each a tepid blessing.
My thoughts tap themselves

out against the amber glass,
restive blue flames that flare

like tiny bodies and disappear.
Should I name these slender

privacies of the soul sorrow?
I prepare, with the rest, for

evening’s first expulsion.