After Dylan Thomas
No night is worth the rage
At close of day—not age or fright
Or what’s left of the wise.
Neither deed nor song of sun in flight
Should take our grief, our cries
This night, and set out to wage
Against the hour’s last pass.
Even our fathers, fathers faded
In the dying of their rage,
Diminish in the swell of light.
We bid them gone in the wane
Of dark and our hearts bloom, gentle.
Shhh now. All the night’s a stage.
No night is ever worth the rage.