Inebriating

I sometimes will ask the night
to shut out the world or prevent
the arrival of dawn, as I don’t want
morning to come, for nothing decides it,
not the moon, not the sun.

Dreams cannot be seen
as they seem far off at the stars,
for a day manifests itself
and does not reveal nightly intervals
of sudden day breaks
filled with light and white birds.

Something in their flight is inebriating,
not with presence but distance;
the purity of stars singes the trees,
burns my body to the core.
What else to do but throw
myself into space?

And with those fires in the night
fades the glow of futile days. I never
look or listen downwards, let
shadows open their light,
let morning escape in the twilight.