Martina Reisz Newberry

“...that is, dusk, when the
two cannot be distinguished from each other…”
Jean Genet

Again, only a short time into Winter,
the world is at that dreadful time of day
when, although it is still light,

the sun is little more than
a vanishing salve over the city
of fallen angels and thieves.

It is no preparation for proper dark.
We are locked in to proper dark,
nurse at the stars, desperate

to grow up like the hugeness
of the night sky. We arm ourselves
with sleep in a way that makes it

nearly impossible to dream
or to wish for anything—
more inanition than real rest.

This is how it is: we do not want
dawn to creep up on us,
a furtive Cain stalking Abel;

we want it to explode in a burst
of sun, a parting of that same sky
which held it in all through the dark.

This is how it is: difficult to discern
scent from secret. If there exists an Eden,
Winter doesn’t know about it.