The night has gone dark--sunset
now marks the end
of days no longer punctuated
by the flare of streetlamps--the eternal whine
of computer screens, the traffic
signal's steady strobe--this darkness is new
to us, children of light that we were--now
we sit in silence around fires
that do nothing to brighten the city--only keep us
warm in a ring of light pressing back
the darkness. But outside
that ring, there is something living. It lurks
in hollowed-out tunnels and under bridges--slinking
between buildings, perhaps even
under your bed, that everlasting nightmare
of children--we have no predators
here, only the shadows
of our thoughts and the promised emptiness
of the dark--but these empty
promises do nothing to assuage the fear
of possibility, the fear of wolf
and bear and mountain lion--what was it
if not light that stopped them
from climbing down the mountain
into our city's streets? But perhaps it isn't them
that we fear--perhaps it is the drumbeat dark
itself, pulsing with potential harm, covering
us like a cloud of smoke, choking
the fires we light, the candles we've scavenged.
Perhaps it is the very material of darkness
that scares us, so unknown
is it to people who've populated the night
with their bars and nightclubs--now night bars us
from leaving the safety of the fire,
the little ring of light that keeps
the darkness out and keeps us in.