LVII: The Seven Days of June: ii

Night

I'd sit out here all night if I'd the time.

It smells like dark, but only the good kind.

That crispy night-time smell that's like a rhyme

that rhymes with what, within a field, you'd find.

This pleasant night, the first of all the year,

that wraps around your skin as like a suit,

the first that doesn't make you shrink with fear

when midnight rings its knell: so cold, so mute.

And there's a train. How rare to like the sound

at 2 AM when one should be asleep.

But nights like these allow one to be found

nearby the tracks, a fruitless vigil keep.

But there's the birds. Perhaps I'll take a song.

While waiting for the Sun to come along.