a ghazal, after Agha Shahid Ali
We’re most fully human on the cusp, the seed of night,
with pretense left behind to gather dust. Then comes the night.
You walk about when all the world’s gone dark, when footsteps
tap Morse code in patterns meant just for the weary night.
Shadows move along a wall, stretch, point long bent
fingers toward the distant black, tricks of wanderlust at night.
Hypnotic glitter’s net—stars, lake’s surface, silver maple
leaves’ flicker—you’re caught in the moondust night.
From house vents, late-hour laundress scents—“soft rain,”
“sea breeze,” “spring meadow,” sudden gust of “summer night.”
You keep to back alleys, where past lives tower in great heaps
of broken bikes, swing sets gone to rust. No play tonight.
Sizzle-pop and spit of snapping wires precedes a fire that
lights a street, melts someone’s home to crust in dead of night.
The owl’s silent glide, the moan of cats, the coyote’s howl
harmonize with our despair or lust—the needs of night.
And what of you, old wanderer, creeping closer to the edge?
Will you let go, release your grip on morning, trust the night?
