Only Your Self When Not a Self

The night at different hours can be
A wholly different beast. In this,
Night is nothing at all like death,
Notorious for not changing.

At midnight, when the air was mild,
The full harvest moon high, washing
Out almost all the stars, you could
Believe a kind of enchantment.

At four, when light slanted sideways
And the cold crickets slowed, your thoughts
Flowed with old and sluggish language.
To be human is inhuman.