Tiffany Bergin

If You Are Already Lonely, What Is There to Fear?

The russet dusk.
Trees like knives’ shadows.
Unoaked woodsmoke
and headlights that unravel
into air. I am running out of time        
to memorize the world:       
the nightjar’s bleat; those first,        
thirsty stars; the final hungry        
sparrows, unlucky but alive.        
Lucky tomorrow, maybe.        
A lonely, ribbeting wood        
that has no moon.            
The kneeling deer. A moon        
tomorrow, maybe.