In the Shadows

At the death of every day

that peacocks glorious and bold

commands the world to pay attention

to the screaming dull importance

of its waves of torrid blusters

Yelling belly over breath, it

tells you not to look away and

strikes the match across your face

and dares you not to blow it out

and begs you not to blow it out--

In the shadows,

you can breathe.

As the faintly rankled musk

of all the dead and rotting things

it takes to make a forest float

perambles soft along the grass

investigates your sunken form

and spurls its tendrils round your head.

To the twoop and honey twiddle

of an evening blackbird's throat

before a hop, a cock of head

and a wipe of dirty beak

chock out a twack, twick, twack

And into mellow dusk

it shuttles back.