untitled

The night punishes
Me for my longing.

This night; That has become
A book refusing to speak

Of anything except deserted
Buildings and empty treeless
Streets, where even mournful
Violins can’t weep.

This night abuses
Memory. Bruises
With its silence. — is a room

Without doors, is a room that
Speaks in gasping tones—
Reciting

An inventory
Of my missteps


Copyright 2006 c.a. leibow