At the edge of the city the evening is always the same -
the techno beat of grasshoppers slaps my window
as the sun sags over the horizon. But it never gets dark.
Years ago I came across a word for the world
I want to sleep in. A world that sounds like broken
glass or the sensation of something always out of reach.
Tinieblas - darkness, the absence of light,
maybe the capital city of a country free of
somnambulists, insomniacs and light-sleepers.
It’s stupid, I know, but bear with me. When
was the last time you noticed that sounds
have shapes in the dark?
Or that blackness has a pitch because it
plays notes you can’t hear in the light?
Have you eaten in the dark? It tears
up tastes and textures and mixes them
with tinieblas until your tongue blushes.
One day someone will invent a word
for the movement you see when your eyes
are closed and time seems to tilt on its axis.
A word that describes the industry of owls,
the hatching of tadpoles, the flirtations of hedgehogs,
the feeding of bats and the nocturnal chaos of cats
As they fill a space beyond the streetlights’ glare
and the stars’ glimmer, outside the sterile glow
of a well-lit home.