There are no shadows at high noon, or at night,
but Nicodemus’ brother is crepuscular, sneaking
out in the gray dusk and slinking home at dawn.
You will know him by his eyes, blood-red,
searching, wildly, for the womb,
the last time he felt warm and beloved;
he is too old now for such soothing, being
born again of whisky and other spirits.
* updated Sunday, March 16, 2014