In preparation for death we
send strangers away, cast
them out unfed and unloved,
scatter their families like paper
and see that it is good.

Expecting the Nightland
we stare at the harsh lights
of winter evenings; red
and green and fierce
fluorescent white – until
they echo when we rest our eyes.

Predicting the silence forever
we lean hard on the horns
of our cars and curse
the traffic, just to rush home
and tear off our clothes.

The rumble of dark water
speaks all night from the mantle
beneath us and we sit up
until dawn, forgiving the lies
about justice in the bitter,
unkind world. Then when
the sun comes up, we go.

J. Kyle Kimberlin
2.25.2017