Winking at the Night

By Cindy Wang Shuran, aged 15

If I quit winking at the night,

find myself peeking out of the window,

a remote sensing feels it:
the deforesting metropolis,

dressed in quiet and old freshness.

Light, also, finds its ease
to linger on, assassinating time.
My sight passes through the dimpled curtain

and back and back,

winking at the night.

Could it be—
since night himself owns myriad countenances?

Take a noon, and thereafter
to tiptoe at the top of a tower
—a not quite secret corner of the house.

Say, so long.