Not for me the beautiful as
defined by the finders
of heart-shapes in
their daily bread, or

the peaceful as defined
by the beach-bound, the 
ocean-drunk,
the rainbow-struck.

For me the rim of night
at the end of
the lit driveway, out beyond
the circle of streetlight,

is the essence worth
my celebration, a boundary
between the acceptable
and the frightful; whatever

there is to be said about
the liminal, the soft lines
of division, I must be the 
one to say it: the one to call it

beautiful. Something 
has moved into that realm
between, and it seems
to be beckoning — it seems

to know me, or perhaps
it is me. I am reaching
for it, as I always have.
Neither for me the brightside,

nor do I embrace its 
opposite. I stand between
and hold out my hand to
this being crouching there:

I offer it peace. It lies down
to await my touch ahead of
my desire to name and know
this being in between.