IMOGENE’S NOTEBOOK
Midnight At Noon
A Poem
Midnight —
not just black engraving itself in starry skies,
not just the moon enveloping your eyes,
not just when the clock strikes twelve —
it’s charred ashes falling into circles
transforming into specks of darkness
then floating in the stillness between breezes,
it’s all ends that roll into every beginning,
it’s every day’s dawn and every night’s spawn,
it’s phases of you —
and phases of everything beyond oceans and skies
that spray paint darkness and light
into varying versions of sight.
Midnight is alive in itself
with black fiery lips
and candid kissable eyes —
it slits the heavy atmosphere to let in the truth of Earth’s lies,
it moves into a slow morphing motion,
then it arrives and highlights the rusty air
just like it began
before the dead of the night forms its own atmosphere,
before it gets too dark to see your reflection weaving into itself,
before the moon dives into a deafening dawn
and becomes a two-toned starkness
echoing into double densities of darkness.
