Da mirrie dancers

 

Because the night is shining green 

    it might split open 

 

so I wait in the still and the cold 

        for the solar wind 

    to blow the sky apart

 

        and sheets of light 

to spiral down and swing

    

    through air with the sound 

        of a knife brushing ice.

 

The voice is distant, bloodless

    like the hiss of iron filings 

        

        as they sing 

    to a moving magnet.

 

There should be no sound,

    I know there can be no sound 

 

yet I hear it 

    resonate through 

the bones of my skull

 

    the magnetic bones of my skull

a tinnitus outside myself 

 

        the voice of the north 

calling the southerner I am

 

        to the thinness of dark

that only the north knows.