Night is too accusatory

Night is too accusatory. Have you done something. The cropped fashion of the lights as they fall and fall off on empty spots forecast ill history. A streetlamp fell on a patch of concrete in front of the apartment building, tall reeds yellow aflame parry frozen at the edges of illumination. A tree trunk stands at the opposite side more in shadow. The focus of the lamp is empty. Something belonged there or was forgotten there. She leans against the tree with her hands above her head looped behind the thin trunk. Her eyes are closed. She faces the apartment window facing the street. That would fill the cone of light, or, occuring in the overcast grey-out of that afternoon, would fill the spot for you in the night, when it is empty. Could you turn it off. The streetlamp blazed emptily, continuously. The light vibrated. The air within it, roiling with haze, was a mistake. You stood there. The patch becomes more empty without you in it. Night is trouble. The darkness locates accidental transgressions and lapsed indiscretions, yet only in part. You made a mistake. You disappeared. You are slowly disappearing. You dilute into the stage sets you have fled and the gentle disruptions your hollow body had sifted into still afternoon air where you trespassed. Full deep night is brighter than wide open day. Night is needles.