Above the fire pit's halo, the new night is neither circle
nor prayer, but the lining of a hat
        millimeters from the skull, the darkness
    separating from light.

The book of unforeseen illumination
        gives up its grinning shine,
for this is the black of a wound gone to heaven,
a flag for the unconscious country
            lost in its weather of disclosure.

The simple spill of shadows
        puddles now, dizzy with the new nothingness
    people step over like a hole.

In the nanolight's dead bounce
a last few photons wave and hop,
        release into flight
    like quarrelsome crows.