The Wires of the Night

The Wires of the Night


I thought about his death
for so many hours,
tangled there in the wires of the night,
that it came to have a body
and dimensions, more than a voice shaking
over the telephone or the black obituary
boldface of name and dates.

His death now had an entrance
and an exit, doors and stairs,
windows and shutters which are
the motionless wings of windows.
His death had a head and clothes,
the white shirt and baggy trousers
of death.

His death had pages,
a dark leather cover,
an index, and the print was too
minuscule for anyone to read.
His death had hinges and bolts
that were oiled and locked,
had a loud motor, four tires,
an antenna that listened to the wind,
and a mirror in which
you could see the past.

His death had sockets and keys,
it had walls and beams.
It had a handle which you
could not hold and a floor
you could not lie down on
in the middle of the night.

In the freakish pink and gray of dawn
I took his death to bed with me and
his death was my bed and in every
corner of the room it hid from the light,

and then it was the light of day
and the next day and all the days
to follow, and it moved into the future
like the sharp tip of a pen moving across
an empty page.


Billy Collins

Posted over on Poetry Foundation