The Nights
The screamer sleeps, inside.
The desert's wide awake:
the mouse, the rattlesnake.
I've come out here to hide,
behind our house, below
the riddled sky, afraid
of what our bodies made.
To the south: Mexico...
These are the nights men run.
Guaymas before midday,
a beach-town life...I play
it out. Such things are done.
The Rincons seep like a stain
into the paling east.
The borders are policed.
The wail, nearby, of a train.
Copyright Credit: “The Nights” by Geoffrey Brock, first published in Poetry (May 2007). Copyright © 2007 by the author. Used by permission.
Source: Poetry (May 2007)