It is the night of a plateau overlooking a plain
Of small stars short trees little pain
Of numbered dreams fathomable main
And the cluttered clouds – medium sized –
Promising a moderate rain.
It is the night of feasible promises
Of minor gains and minor misses
Of hand-holdings and forehead-kisses
And the rambling radio – fairly prized –
Playing whatever it is.
It is the night of nothing special
Of a burnt rope and a blunt scalpel
Of a divine absence solid dull
And the mumbling silence – organized –
Saving the raving skull.