Winter of My Night

The stars
That used to be bright blue
And countless
When I was eight or nine
Have fallen off mostly
Or turned the wick down.
The city breathes like a dying firefly.
The moisture-less wind
Is cold against my bare legs.

Yesterday I heard
The last tenuous strands
Of joyous foolishness
Breaking with a snap.

Purple black
Ink-stained
Morningless.
Winter is all but gone
In this winter of my night.