Erin Murphy

Goodnight Mood


The night has monsters under
the monsters, cobwebs

of clotted logic, jostled
thoughts, jostled gods.

In this rough translation of day,
the darkest sparks come

from shadows in your throat.
No matter what the poets say:

the glass of milk is dim and resin-thick.
The shiver of history shrinks

to the button on the blue black
wool coat you wore in eighth grade,

to the bus token that took you—fugitive
from school—downtown,

scaffold of smoke against a bruised sky.
Blue black or black blue? Blue

blue. Oh, patches of anger,
chiseled misery. See the stars burn

out or drown. You are an old
question. You have been counted

by sheep. It is time
to rock the song to sleep.