Vigil
Nightshade trails beneath my fingers,
mingles with starshine upon the water,
in the umbered slick of bogs.
Urgent thoughts pressing against my skull:
writhing moths seeking your illumination.
I am called, by your longing or mine;
Why must I always give it voice?
You invoke within me
desperate cries in the wakeful silence.
The late hour laughs at our passion,
My helplessness, hapless irony
And beckons me forth to fill your absence
With vigils in swamps.