After Dark at a Refugee Camp on the Myanmar Border
by James Green

The moon burrows
through gunmetal clouds
like a headlight in fog.

That hour after dark
when there is no stepping back
from where the night might lead

and the camp
is deep inside a dream
it will not share.

Echoes of the day
have fled like bats
and sallow lights from lanterns

filter through woven bamboo walls
of houses propped onto the side
of the mountain.

They are lighthouses for any who wander
and whatever else has not been killed
by the silence in the shadows.



 

Return to: