2018 / poetry / author
LANA BELLA
HOW BRIEFLY THE NIGHT
…
clings to love, combs out a mad dash
from beneath the light of Calais.
Tugging the corners of earth where
the sky is pink, I gaze out to sea
to the last hour on water, like a bee
right up to the end of ache. Some-
times I think about that someday, I
should learn to swim, to move dark
waves rushing south so fast a comfort
of me could follow. But now is winter,
dusk hangs ice smoke gentle as not
to stir, something like the notion
of startlings keening the water wind,
conjugate the insomnia of my outcast
feet fighting for ground. Then if I sieve
with the night aniline in pale of colors,
will I needle and breathe hurt illume
beneath a street lamp, the way the calm
returns where something used to be?