from Book of Hours
--Kevin Young 

The light here leaves you
lonely, fading 

as does the dusk
that takes too long 

to arrive. By morning
the mountain moving 

a bit closer to the sun. 

This valley belongs
to no one— 

except birds who name
themselves by their songs 

in the dawn.
What good 

are wishes, if they aren't
used up 

The lamp of your arms. 

The brightest
blue beneath the clouds— 

We guess
at what's next 

unlike the mountain 

who knows it
in the bones, a music 

too high
to scale. 

*       *       *