by Emma Jones
Where does the light go, that funnel of birds?
Already, now, the dark is assembling
its parts. Its slow motor of shadows rides
the footpaths, frail and grey; dropped by buildings,
picked up by glass; shuttered by sun in boards
and stone; small, and attended by nothing;
eaten and eating, cooling and cold; spread
like a spreading caul of clouds, and gathering.
Clouds, or birds. It says swing low. When the sun
sets, strange, it inches out; a colony
of grown things. Like a page had let its words
fan out. Ink-world, eye-world, cement, blue stone—
The lights of the buildings shelve the city.
Where does the dark go, that funnel of birds?