I know the love of evening I now feel
corresponds to my poverty, as when
a boy I turned my head to peer into
its gloom, the crushing volume of darkness
quelling the hysteria of the birds
to finer movements of their homes, the trees,
filling with the inky night that turned them
to presences, and confounded feeling.
I remember the evenings and the nights
(so darkly proximate) for their blissful
surreality: that so much beauty
and peace should be mine to behold! -- At no
time did I forebode hell awaited me:
evening and night become clockwork things.