After Midnight

"It is not all as evil as you think" Rolf Jacobsen

nasty weather. but that’s when bonfires

broil in trashcans,

not just for the cold nights—a gathering place

for the new and seasoned, for those who

don’t find shelter

or choose not to.

breaths, small spirals, shuffle in the frost,

like people for a chair.

it’s during bonfires, tall words

spark or one word spits, or

the same old rift between two friends

ignites—

the gun no the knife no the fist

in the face no the gut of a guy in the next

mission bed—worth bandying about,

except why. someone snorts with humour,

another stokes the fire,

scraps of ensuing silence pop in flame,

in airborne memories

communal tongues don’t speak. anyway,

it’s all one story, one thread drawn through the same

cloth of flammable prayer, a good night to flock,

where flickers fill up the night’s vagrancy,

flesh the soul, show strong bones

in the otherwise unseen hands held flat

to the fire, then curl and grasp

what the heat inside them now can will.

suddenly, the day’s cache of cigarettes is

for anyone who wants one.

a bottle passes ‘round reverently.

a joint’s incense, holy as church, swells

like a hymn in the lungs.

the young, about to go, hang around

and the elders acknowledge them

and make room in their circle. sometimes

someone breaks form, homesick, and leaves.

the rest hunker down, each to one’s choice one’s thanks

one’s exodus nobody judges:

a waving, woozy

green-light road regret on red,

this night, can’t cross.