It is not a game, the dragging of the light
Away from the mountains. The game passes
Over night like a floating casino over a lake,
An astonishingly deep lake. Inside the boat,
More games, games within games, glittering
But rather dull on a night without weather,
Nothing to frighten the unmoored.
Only on the outer decks is there the faint
Slop of waves against the hull’s waterline.
On a still night, the casino is most glorious,
Serene and ghostly viewed from the shore,
A spectacularly phosphorescent monster
Drifting through the finite but borderless
Lake of the actual night. That monstrosity
Is what human brains have found in dreams,
A spinning, suspended, crosshatched
Dynamo of borders, watertight with rules.
If you lie awake, you can watch it float by
From the outside, a whole city sinking slowly
Until dawn drains the dark, when the ship
Lies exposed and eroding, bone white.
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