The Night We Know (1) Walking

(image credit)

In the night I will drink from a cup of ashes and yellow paint.
In the night I will gossip with the clouds and grow strong.
In the night I will cross rooftops to watch the sea tremble in a dream.
In the night I will assemble my army of golden carpenter ants.
In the night I will walk the towpath among satellites and cosmic dust.
In the night I will cry to the roots of potted plants in empty offices.
In the night I will gather the feathers of pigeons in a honey jar.
In the night I will become an infant before your flag.

Nights on Planet Earth, by Campbell McGrath

Our pupils expand to take in as much as they can to illuminate our paths
Through the kaleidoscopic cityscape where we imagine people standing like sentinels,
While the tall, nondescript buildings of only shapes and thousands of eyes bustle about
Shopping perhaps for the latest footholds or moorings at their foundation
And for scores of cosmetics to fashion a façade for their nightly carousing.
Our minds automatically adjust the psychology of day into night so that
Without even batting an eye, pursing our lips, or furrowing our eyebrows,
We do not see anything different or odd about the night, these people or those buildings –
We walk the same pavements we do in daytime and somehow compensate
For the slabs underfoot having shifted and the angles with those lamp posts
Becoming obtuse or acute or even a 180º as we walk closer and farther away,
All the while the psychology that we harbor telling us it’s just our usual world,
The same rumble of engine, the same swirl of feet, the same palette of textures in the air.

The Night We Know - Part 1: Walking © Ron Villejo