Midnight, July

Midnight, July

We writhe
with a rage to know
the unknowable,

blind to great masses
that dance in dark orbits.
And a soft, summer wind
on a night beneath stars
is no balm.

From somewhere a whistle 
casts a line,

a fragile camaraderie 
in a world
fell silent,

where white moth-wing 
is riotous

and a spider's touch
carnal.



©AndrewJamesMurray