Night & Day
for Jeanne Marie Beaumont
A night without cows or hopscotch,
distillate, sullen, mischievous––
dreams folding onto dreams like a long
satin ribbon folded multiple times––
slipslidy unschemed dreams.
At the crack of, an orange frost
glazes the tips of marsh reeds
but the reed roots stay black.
Later, clear clouds, vaporous skies––
topsyturvian, hurlyburlyian, unholy––
although garlanded brightly
in customary green and pink finery.
Night of the woebegotten, the ungodly, grubby.
Day of festival. Night of carnival.
Clipcloppiddy day. Clabbered night.
Tumbleweeds and thistles scrape
the day prickly, the night phantasmal.
A sky besmeared with a buttery sun
(jellytoastian?), followed by pellucid stars,
acned moon (or pockmarked moon?).
That skyblue pink lavender plumbago continuum
with its dawn duskiness, its dusky dawnness.
Common backdrop of our being, our day
and nightness, start and stopness, the bright
and darkness of things, hodgepodgy,
kaleidoscopic––aperture opening, closing.