Night Song

Under deaf and sun-smeared turquoise,
his head high in the blinding gilt-glare,
sunflower-faced, the solitary figure toils,
dead slow, along the whitewashed wall—
mile after mile of cruel adobe spite.
His filthy robe trails weightlessly behind;
the hem, floating on still air, scatters
drifts of pastel confetti, bloody tears.
His long since vacant eyes locked on the sun,
his path brittle-bright and pitiless,
he recounts the names of the dead, keening
the night song to an indifferent star.


from Sailor in the Rain and Other Poems
© 2007 Denis M. Garrison

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