Letting this night go,
this bird or giant moth, 
as it’s leaving us behind, flying off 
on powder-soft wingbeats.

It’s been either mystery
or mistake, no doubt, but we’re not
getting another word as it goes
away; we’re being left to fill

everything in — what it was, what it
said and how it spoke.  It will not
serve us to make up too much, but neither
will it be good for anyone to leave gaps

where we imagine the truth should fit.
We should tell what truth we know
whenever we can, even if the night
left much unsaid. So let’s sit

on a bench in the dark and talk
until we think we understand, or 
understand enough to say plainly
what we think we know, what we

are willing to commit to: how to interpret
the mystery, how to fix the mistake,
how to get to dawn from here as the night
rises on silent wings, wounded or not

but resisting in
the only way it knows:

by not giving up a secret without
a sacrifice or an offering.


About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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