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Putting this up because I have an unnatural fear I am going to lose my saved file of it, and I really like this poem.

On Misreading a Line in Trakl's Psalm

The garden is evening. Black and swart, crushed already by the coming waves of night. For the evening is short and its blindness almost total, with dim glimps of twilight bearing through on golden-pink rays of blue gray and green. The night shuts down and clamps maw on those final, near dead rays, or sighs. The garden is no more. And for longer than shades swifting in the sizzle of backyard barbecues-steaks and burgers all around, men and women smiling those smiles of neighborly courtesy-can be dulled-because they are shades and these are men, and women, and they are dull if not shade or shadow-the night proceeds. Until the dawn we thought had died arises in the arc of morning glory. PRAISE! PRAISE! PRAISE THE END OF NIGHT! And in that swath of shimmer shine we live again. But the garden is evening. The garden is no more. Because now the night has died, pierced, punctured, pierced by the dazzling slim great spear of light through the undulating dark organs that sustain the night that is death. And this not the false death and resurrection of morning, of sight, of a corpulent sun. It is the unchangeable, immutable execution of death. It is the paradox incarnate. There is no war. No seesaw equilibrium, then imbalance, of day and night. No rift in the sky, that looming battlefield of those fat forces, for the glint, stone gem unpolished glint, of a transient evening to hang through, varied and beautiful, like a moment in molasses. The garden is evening. The evening is no more.