NIGHT
 
 
 
It had begun to rain
In the poem, in the drone strikes that were starting to take place
 
 
Seeds were dropping
 
 
            Pick
            A letter, from        one
 
            Hundred to an
            Echo
 
 
From here to being
                    Encased by nightfall
 
                                        Where you can’t breathe
 
 
                            Writing tells you
                    What
 
        To expect— I don’t know
How
                To disturb you
 
 
In the dark purse of what we say we mean
 
 
            When we say or swagger
 
                            Into night’s soft terror


Mark DuCharme