A swamp beneath the stars

Why do we fear the night,
our final bliss,
by seeking sounds and sights
to replace things we miss.

Night is full of constancy
yet inconstant is my heart,
like living in a comedy
of crazy, unconnected parts.

I’m a stream with no banks,
really a swamp, beneath stars
separated with blanks,
an old drive-in with no cars.

I feel the earth turn and churn,
a giant wheel of time,
waiting for my clime
when shadows deep and dark combine.