Nights.
Sylvia Berta Alaniz
I have struck middle age
and the magic horn
og life is not tuned, here.
The days are long
and nights seem
to languish on,
bit by bit,
knowing slowness
as a single union
and in the sounds
of night -
railroads, and dogs.
The distance speaks
between nights and days
to squeeze even longer,
with louder sounds,
that a lonely night can have
and still resist
from selling its' soul.
