NIGHT, By Gary Snyder

All the dark hours everywhere repair

and right the hearts & tongues of men

and makes the cheerful dawn--

the safe place in a blanket burrow

hissing ears and nibbling wet lips

smoothing eyebrows and a stroke up the back of the

knee,

licking the nape of the neck and tickling the tense

breast with fluttering eyelid, flitting

light fingers on thin chest skin,

feeling the arteries tangle the hollow groin,

arching the back backward, swinging sidewise,

bending forward, dangling on all fours.

the bit tongue and trembling ankle,

joined palms and twined legs,

the tilted chin and beat cry,

hunched shoulders and a throb in the belly.

teeth swim in loose tongues, with toes curled.

eyes snapped shut, and quick breath.

hair all tangled together.

the radio that was never turned off.

the record soundlessly spinning.

the half-closed door swinging on its hinges.

the cigarette that burned out.

the melon seeds spit on the floor.

the mixed fluids drying on the body.

the light left on in the other room.

the blankets all thrown on the floor and the birds

cheeping in the east.

the mouth full of grapes and the bodies like loose leaves.

the quieted hearts, passive caress, a quick exchange

of glances with eyes then closed again,

the first sunlight hitting the shades.

From “No Nature” (Pantheon: $25.; 390 pp.).

1992 by Gary Snyder. Reprinted by permission.