The Hat of Night
Why does the hat of night
fly so full of holes? --Pablo NerudaThe hat of Night has flown,
black and riffling like a holy flag
of decadence, projected from
the ship of day-- decrying light.Beneath the Captain's black,
brimmed hat, whose sutures leak
illumination, bodies as of those bedeviled
frisk between blanched monoliths
like ashes up a chimney chute--
untethered, passing tatters pleased between
the stones of dead and even dead disciples.Yes, the gate is barred, but enter in.
The Captain's yellow eyes
are on its spiking edges, where the threads
of our facades were caught.Outside, the walk is slick and flat-- cement.
A row of poplars sag, devoutly static.
Snaking steel stands
brace the dozens of piebald bikes,
all black in this wet night
beneath his hat, triumphant flown.A whiff is decadent--
loam moldering, wet leaves
in a tight, tight mat.The ruptures in Night's hat, which no
bright deity punched deliberately,
are lacerations-- human stuff-- and
his moldering odor is only the musk
of each white abscess in the broad,
black brim-- an ink wash
banded with light.copyright 2005 Sarah Bull
bio
Contents 05