The night unwinds.  And I’m alone.
Below, shadows like rabbits
slip from holes at the terminus
of lines of sunken dirt
to play.

                                                                        I sit with a cold can
                    in my hand, wondering if they, too, smell smoke
                    where there is no fire
within sight.

                                                            How do you say goodnight
                                                                 without an ear to hear?

You close your eyes and breathe the spectral scent
of her, lifted—phantom wisps—from your clothes.

You feel the black-silk-press of her mouth against
yours, still lingering.  Still lingering.

You taste the sharp, sweet remnant of her—
brush of fingertip, scratch of nail—
like a rune drawn across your lips.

The Night unwinds—the day withdrawing
without a word—

                                                              so many things far away;
                                                          so many things left undone.

But the night yet unwinds,

                                                                              some things burn
                                                                                     without sight.