after Alejandra Pizarnik
All night I make night in me. I fugue.
Water howls violently outside,
a ribbon patterned from the sound of
in the memory of
some halo, bitter bright, shrapnel of grief.
All night I spill questions. Death
breathes a nest of smoke through the nostrils
of its wolf mask— tapetum lucidum
leering out until night opens in me.
I lurch forward at its looking.