Birds in the Dark

Through rainwater beaded windows, car headlights
sweep through the unlit living room, two blinks
of the turn signal, yellowing then unyellowing
the silver urn on my mantel, the solitary night spent,
the solitary night saved, like a young man brimming with strength
in a stone-framed monastery, like so many piggybank pennies
I grow up to find useless. If you spend the night watching
the night, it grows into something formless, hideous
then shrinks back into the fireplace den, shrinks
into a universe of its own, the unwashed dinner plate
orbiting motionless on the coffee table, preparing perhaps
to launch an offensive in the East, annexing the red stained wine glass,
or to crash against the wall at will: mine.
Isn't this the point of meditation, to be god of a moment?
To temporarily take hold of the reins even when you aren't sure
who are the horses? I will carry this darkness
with me in the morning, pass on its presence
and peace to the eyes that meet mine.
Outside: the storm's heart is illusive and beats
down on the pavement in moments we can't quite catch—
down 'til just before you think it might dawn
it's done, and the blacktop glistens rough in the streetlight.
Inside: I glisten rough in the dark.