Against a city night—an indigo darkness punctured by thin electric lights, brick canyons sealing out the stars, a sliver of moon spilling over the West River—the speaker speaks to a boy she met that evening. His eyes stay with her as two red-glowing arcs. In them she sees something faded and sorrowful, like the deadened eyes of a woman, and a fragile lost innocence, light as a withered sweet-pea pod but still moist and fragrant against her soul. The encounter feels intimate, almost intrusive in its tenderness. She is older, more experienced, someone who has “passed so many lights,” yet she cannot explain why this boy’s eyes remain with her like swinging lanterns. She asks what he is to her, but the poem leaves that question open; the image of swinging lanterns is the only answer. The mood is nocturnal, urban, and quietly haunted: a fleeting meeting that leaves an unanswerable ache.
Nocturne — Summary
Indigo bulb of darkness Punctured by needle lights Through a fissure of brick canyon shutting out stars, And a sliver of moon Spigoting two high windows over the West river....
Boy, I met to-night, Your eyes are two red-glowing arcs shifting with my vision.... They reflect as in a fading proof The deadened eyes of a woman, And your shed virginity, Light as the withered pod of a sweet pea, Moist and fragrant Blows against my soul. What are you to me, boy, That I, who have passed so many lights, Should carry your eyes Like swinging lanterns?