Nuit Blanche

The portrait of a man in electric blue,
a torso actually,

hangs there on the wall;
and further down

the depiction of an electric chair
dangles in pink, red and violet pastels.

(Oh how the shadows cry,
the voices of the dead.)

And turning now we realize too late
that we have passed through

an opened door
into a forgotten room

where no one ever sleeps
and no one ever leaves.        

THE WAVES AT MIDNIGHT

I sleep with books of poetry in my bed.
There's an ocean at my door.
I hear the hum of voices in my head.

The waves at midnight are dark and blue.
I can't remember anything anymore.
I've swum out so far, I've lost sight of the shore.