Arthur Yap

here, in the night, trees sink deeply downward.
the sound of moonlight walking on black grass
magnifies the clear hard calls of a nightjar,
its soliloquy of ordered savagery, little intervals.
time, clinging on the wrist, ticks it by
but eyes, glued to the dark pages of night,
could not scan the source on the branch.

its insistent calls jab & jab so many times
to a silent ictus, so many times, ringing off the branch
in tiny sharp tuks, each lifting from the last

through the night. while the shadows of the trees
go past the edge of sleep & i sit awake,
if it’s footfalls across the road, they should be
far away. sounding on the trees, an euphony
lodged on high, the starlit side of heaven.