Like the body in time it’s all too easy to forget.
It grows bigger as your light sets;
first it’s just a cube of darkness —pulled out of your heart,
but precisely for that reason it’s licking your calves with its warm tongue.
And when you think of it it’s almost endearing:
the dead toss a white bone to it.
But in an hour it’s as large as your step,
biting you with each step hungry to be.
The more it darkens the more you apprehend,
your footsteps slowing down on the bridge—
the night is a river an elongating animal
a maw of darkness a hundred snake teeth.
Now you’re scared you appease it with a bone or a hand
or another love—
doesn’t matter. At any rate before long
you’ll become one.