There is darkness,
like singed angel's wings,
shadowing the hollows of the night,
curling along the moon's lips
like the jutting cheekbones
of a starveling child, crisscrossed,
netted around blackened stars,
caught between
the lowered black lashes
of curving gutters,
slick and glassy with ***** water.

From a distance, light travels slowly.
We see the gleam of stars,
like a handful of scattered shards,
and do not know that they have gone out-
have been out-
and are cold black lumps
floating in space.
We only find out later,
years after the light has faded.

By then, it's too late.