Rain drenches the patio stones.
All night was spent waiting
for an earthquake, and instead

water stains sand with its pink foam.
Yesterday’s steps fill in with gray crabs.
Baritone of a fog horn. A misty light

warns tankers, which block the green
after-sunset flash. My lover’s voice calls
to others in his restless sleep.

The venetian blinds slice streetlights,
light coils around my waist and my lover’s neck,
dividing him into hundredths.

Would these fractions make me happier?
My hands twist into a crocodile.
My index finger the tooth that bites

Gauguin’s Tahiti. My thumb is the head feather
of a California quail crying chi-ca-go.
Night barely continues. Is this the building

staying still? Is this hand the scorpion
that will do us in? A few of Irving Street’s
sycamores will blue the air come morning.

Analysis, meaning and summary of Deborah Ager's poem Night: San Francisco


  1. Mellisa says:

    I just love it. Open your world with her poems. You will see that you will like it.

  2. Donald E. Boyd says:

    I like your poems, Deborah. Keep me apprised of your work, please. -Don
    (P.S. I was trained in the classical mode of poetry writing at Harvard but presently work in what is termed “post modern”)

  3. martin says:

    i have a full translation of this poem into polish. btw, my translation, and even in other language, it sounds great.

  4. Cormac Canales says:

    I can SEE this poem as I read it.

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