The Thorn He Needs Poem by GORDON GILHULY

pomegranate sunset and then
the city washes its hands of the day
becomes its own silhouette
a black ink chicanery to hide the imperfections
to serve as jeweller's cloth
for the gem stones of the night

black is not the absence of colour
black is the absence of her

where, indeed, have all the flowers gone
he wonders as the night plays its mind games

high above the city
he hesitates to light a fire at the mouth of his cave
self-imposed martyrdom against the distraction of colour
the hypnotism of flickering faces the warm mendacity of words

for now darkness is the thorn he needs