by Lauren Camp

Good night, good night
from the grip of the world.

Having so long bundled into winter, and woke and slept complicit
in my indoor vault. Watched the forecast.
Then through summer’s holler,

took every one of its hot, identical hearts.
Having finally to learn the gravity of space. Having the lens
and wavelength to know night

might unfold me to the tender scheme of the planet. So much I had to want
before I could get here: the magnitude. My own

reflection and doubling. So much peering. So much waking first.
The moon is wryly waxing crescent, building a curve
to its littlest spill. All month, down and up
until it is padded with the full
flex and diameter of its off-centered softness.

Origin shows up as ink, paint, countless vessels. I want my mind
dozing on wings and secret feet. Want the noble
clamor of Milky Way as it sieves over the earth. Darkness can be

a persnickety vapor, but I’ll hang my steps
to any path that will fit me to
sky-time with its glittery wardrobe. The night I can sever my shadow, sure,

I’ll let the universe cut through me. Far-flung, all the lights
twisted silver. Perhaps I haven’t told you any secrets, but I’ve begun
to prefer to crease into the edges of constantly whole.

The hours without their effulgence. Looking off, I can skim the almighty
rain with its fancy nest to the north. Watch its long legs
engineer the horizon. The wind has arced again and certain birds
whistle their blue-calloused ballads.

Lauren Camp is the author of An Eye in Each Square (River River Books, 2023) and Worn Smooth between Devourings (NYQ Books, 2023), among other titles. She currently serves as Poet Laureate of New Mexico. Lauren can be found on Facebook (LaurenMukamalCamp), Twitter (@poetlauren) and Instagram (@laurencamp).