Sentinel Poetry Magazine January 2003

Night

The door opened into the night
And he stepped out clutching
A sack of doubts
             

He measured his gait
Firmed his soul and
Left behind the rope
That binds the heart


He walked into the night
Whose harlot hands
Promised comfort
In the bedchamber of faith

"It is not here
                It could be there"

The night knows its own
And speaks to them like
The still small voice.