The evening sky is bruised and bloodied. Stars
Prepare to collapse, cars ready for bed.
While the rotary hoist recoils from the coming dark,
The lawnmower sleeps soundly in the garden shed.
Street lights consider retiring for the night
As the house braces itself against the cold.
The fence leans and whispers to the lawn to be quiet,
Wires hum lullabies from telegraph poles.
Inside, a fist unclenches to clutch at a breast;
Outside, a cloud threatens the moon.
He says he hates it when she’s obmutescent,
Yet swears her words won’t end this poem.
As love is not undone by acts of violence,
The night is not reclaimed with vows of silence.