The night is that temperature
where the air curls around you,
but leaves your warmth intact.
The moon is full and perfect,
an illustration from an astronomy book.
The clouds are stretched out cotton balls,
with the undersides dipped in grey-blue dye;
bits of darkness hung out on the line
and accidentally saturated with light;
or perhaps the footprints of the sandman that
are half-filled with the night.
And yet the night still silently conquers
the contest for poetry.













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