It can only get this dark at night.

Before thunder strikes a road
covered in trees bending over like cut grass,
before the dog yelps running
through neighbors' yards trailing a rabbit's shadow,
and before the walls roll and shake
like the inside of a canon,
take two breaths into a half-open mouth.
Look outside and watch someone
invisible in the sky
empty a can of black.

It rolls slow like molassass in January,
like blood through constricted veins.
Cloud shapes like tattered earth,
a hint of opaque grey,
lines of yellow pulse and bump
as highways for birds flying
away from here.

Ten minutes later
everything is black.
When you place your head on a pillow
and start thinking about
whatever makes you fall asleep,
places on Earth start to look the same.
You're falling asleep in a white loft
in New Jersey when someone
in Kansas watches the black roll in
like a basement flood
damaging boxes of photos,
soggying sweaters and dollhair.

Birds flock and fly in conference
towards Nevada or Arizona,
churning gusts with their wings
that push the black back
long enuogh for them to land
next to a lake and get overtaken
by night.