So early in the morning now, the night’s
as black as it will get. This is the heart
of it, except for stars, the few street lights
that blink behind the wind blown trees, the shock
of black that’s haloed white. It’s strange, this late,
the bottom of the night, inside this well
where dark is palpable and all the weight
of Time, the fur of its dark self, a spell
more than a body’s feel, is felt. The laws
remain the same, but all’s now up for grabs,
the red light now a moral choice because
you’re there alone, and all’s become a map
where every place is fantasy, a home
for different parts of you, and you, alone.
Ed Hack is from the USA. He was a teacher, he’s now a poet. He’s been writing for years, being published here and there. For the last three years he has been exploring the precision, passion, and forms of the sonnet.