Frank Bidart

Dark Night

In a dark night, when the light
   burning was the burning of love (fortuitous
   night, fated, free,—)
   as I stole from my dark house, dark
   house that was silent, grave, sleeping,—
 
by the staircase that was secret, hidden,
   safe: disguised by darkness (fortuitous
   night, fated, free,—)
   by darkness and by cunning, dark
   house that was silent, grave, sleeping—;
 
in that sweet night, secret, seen by
   no one and seeing
   nothing, my only light or
   guide
   the burning in my burning heart,
 
night was the guide
   to the place where he for whom I
   waited, whom I had long ago chosen,
   waits: night
   brighter than noon, in which none can see—;
 
night was the guide
   sweeter than the sun raw at
   dawn, for there the burning bridegroom is
   bride
   and he who chose at last is chosen.
 
 
           *
 
As he lay sleeping on my sleepless
   breast, kept from the beginning for him
   alone, lying on the gift I gave
   as the restless
   fragrant cedars moved the restless winds,—
 
winds from the circling parapet circling
   us as I lay there touching and lifting his hair,—
   with his sovereign hand, he
   wounded my neck–
   and my senses, when they touched that, touched nothing...
 
In a dark night  (there where I
   lost myself,—) as I leaned to rest
 in his smooth white breast, everything
 ceased
 and left me, forgotten in the grave of forgotten lilies.
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