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Night Philosophy
The clatter of rain has a personal meaning.
This is the time to meditate or write down your dreams.
But the lover can do neither, can only wander
From room to room trying not to spill what’s so precious.

Around the lover are myriad sounds
Thoughts shine through like water.
Forms, shapes, colors, stations are glorified in the morning.
Indecipherable, almost transparent.

Fear of loss takes root in the blood.
Words form, interpretations.

Miracles: no one there where someone was.
A white nightgown here where no one was.

The stars that shine shed no light
As if to show experience purifies existence.

“Experience was everything to me.”
(This is what unpracticed love would say.)

Every word must come from an act.
Difficult to know

Who will believe that.


Night Philosophy
Is theology.

We have not seen such darkness for centuries.
Then you shout
Our minds resounding: who!

The ordeal of dying is the dream before, so much seeing and losing forms.
Guard whacking at invisible ankles and you.

Hands up?

The action is done in a dream. Who did what? The closed book, the feet asleep.

Every thought condensed into an atom
Then exploded.

Stars also are only seen when they’re gone.
They belong to the innocent.

It’s like some cherries carry photons in their pits
To see what might see them.

Zero rests in blackness until its time has come.
It took years but a woman grew to love her husband before she died.

He wore a jacket made of grass.


So you believe in predestination?


I remember a child who licked up the mist on the windowpane to see eternity. 

One boy has a bomb strapped to his chest and another rides his skateboard through the traffic. 

On a snowy Christmas there was a pause between each sixth gong of the bell.

A sun that looked like nine but it was already noon: is when?

Red raspberries turned black on that same path. I recall frost around the nipple.
What is your faith?

Crack anything and you will let free the spirit of liberty.

The open red throat of a sick child: 

I heard such faith in my childhood house.

It’s as if words are remnants of thoughts that can’t be caught.

Fanny Howe has written many poems and novels (Radical Love, Nightboat) and her most recent collection of poems will be published by Graywolf (Love and I).