night is a coal by David Mclean

night is a coal that is not burning,
like anxiety somewhere else
editing letters, awaiting miracles
or death;

night is a coal between our ribs
where hearts used to be,
when it was people we were,
mostly;

night is a coal still, is not burning
like a frog learning to fly,
or a memory cold as heaven's grate
inside me, a coal not burning yet

because the tender devils do not come
to tend fires in me, not since years stopped
beating, night is a coal that left me, like time,
not even a memory, where nothing burns

inside any “me,” any brutal body:
this one is so full of gruesome fluids
that it puts out fires quite easily -
a body isn't very arid territory