in the dark

the leaves of grass are cold
at night their life matches
the soulless nitrogen
that passes and touches without becoming one with
and remains the same
the other parts descend and get stuck
the wetness has its own sound at night
everything is delicate and away from right
left alone it is still windless
waiting for a movement to relieve the feeling
of condescension that has landed
uninvited unscripted universal
to be lifted