the night is not what you think
By Corbett Buchly
the night comes in like a broom
brushing away the grasps of sun
with streaks of moon ribbon
and void grins of empty space
the night is not what you think
a warm blanket under a busy fan
there are the chimes of gremlins
that only come out after you’ve
lost your vigilance to exhaustion
but I hear, they are skittering
through the walls chittering
between the dryboards
they know all about us
and have nothing nice to say
what made them so cruel
these night things
that whisper our fears
all night like politicians
they have turned my brain against me
he has come loose from the lining of my skull
and squirms in the air above the bed
like the ancient serpent tempting
the forked tongue of my mind
stabs my flesh until only my breath
in staccato allegro bursts of flight
can wrench me away
how can I know what violence
strangers have inflicted upon you
what the scars along your skull bear
when like the planet hurtling headlong into future
you never speak of the past
the night is not what you think
serene sanctuary of the weary
only the sun can cauterize our wounds
only the rays of dawn can break open each lie
and send it withering back into the earth
only the press of solar heat
can settle this mist of ruin
restore the heart
Corbett Buchly writes about art and making in W/Make (Bottlecap Press). He has published numerous poems in journals, including Rio Grande Review, Plainsongs, and Barrow Street. He is an alumnus of TCU and the professional writing program at USC. He lives in Texas with his family and flock of manual typewriters.
