It’s a bright night out tonight a bright light like the light of a dead sun bright enough to read by, to write by star-studded? five hundred years ago it was; and now, while the night breathes in moist magenta entrapping apartments beneath a wall of light is it day or is it night?
it’s red or it’s blue and it comes still shafts of color, placid and turbulent like the plague like locusts through the windows, open like a woman walking in slowmotion as the night advances in decomposition and recomposes itself when the clouds lighten slightly and morning comes wan, not bright is it day or is it night?
when I was too young to know the moon’s movements and naive enough to think that the moon could shine as bright as the sun I was confused, on a full moon if it were night or day and slept in my parents’ bed in uncomfortable doubt if it were day or night
and now I am in my own bed and the moon is nowhere to be seen it’s a wet night in the city a greenhouse, a science experiment of its own light, under the magenta clouds, illuminated bright I know it’s night but it feels not that way feels like neither night nor day.