Four Glimpses of NightBy Frank Marshall Davis
Like a woman hurrying to her lover
Night comes to the room of the world
And lies, yielding and content
Against the cool round face
Of the moon.
Night is a curious child, wandering
Between earth and sky, creeping
In windows and doors, daubing
The entire neighborhood
With purple paint.
Is an apologetic mother
Cloth in hand
From door to door
Black bags of peppermint stars
Heaping cones of vanilla moon
His wares are gone
Then shuffles homeward
Jingling the gray coins
Night’s brittle song, sliver-thin
Shatters into a billion fragments
Of quiet shadows
At the blaring jazz
Of a morning sun.
Frank Marshall Davis, "Four Glimpses of Night" from Black Moods: Collected Poems, edited by John Edgar Tidwell. Copyright © 2002 by the Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois. Reprinted by permission of University of Illinois Press.
Source: Black Moods: Collected Poems (University of Illinois Press, 2007)
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