Run On

Race to write before the night
That is not the thing without
The sun hogging the sky behind

Clouds or your averted eyelids
(Yes, yours, not mine, I'm not
Blurring any yous for you this time)

And not the metaphorical night
Of ordinary death or division
That is devoutly to be shushed

But the night of naught, the night
Of forgetting the details that made
You think you were a thing aware

And not the mere awareness
Of the thing as it breathed and ate
The air too thin for descendants

Of the blood of the oceans,
That night, that unpunctuated
Ungrammatical night of stars

So exquisite forever in every
Direction that gods never find

To hide their shine in, that, that,

The night of being your own
Light in an infinite whirl
Of what is not you and not.