It is the bottom of the night, the beginning of day….

That place where all unease collects, distills
its gritty sediments, like clumps of leaves

at the bottom of a cup— Inscrutable, they sit
unsifted, waterlogged, composting once

green hopes— Divine is often the verb
used to describe what shapes they’ll spell;

when heat has blanched and water cooled,
what futures might yet unspool—

[LAG-other-response date=”08 28 2012″ url=”http://thepalaceat2.blogspot.com/2012/08/the-gulf-of-night.html” title=”Marly Youmans: The gulf of night—“]