I am addicted to light.
I drink from the full moon's grail.
Forgive me, darkness.
I wake after midnight craving stars,
stealing downstairs, tip toe
by the refrigerator, past
the cider and cheese, wander
out to the edge of the forest
past the pumpkins,
making barefoot prints in frost,
crunching brittle clover.
Naked I am standing now,
wholly empty like a reed
that sways out of the soil
in its hollow whirlwind
of stillness, my skull
titled back like a goblet
spilling comets, eyes closed,
throat groping for the Word,
shamelessly from
belly to brow imbibing
the secret nectar of blackness
until my roots tingle all
the way down
to the planetary seed
and my crown is aglitter 
with Andromeda...

Even before dawn
I am wasted by luminosity!
O Nabasvan, witching breath
of the Mother-hour
when silence turns to milk and
mushrooms quiver out of loam,
feed me your dagger of angels,
sheathed in a moonbeam,
for I am addicted to night.

(In Sanskrit, Nabasvan means 'breath of dawn,' the hour before sunrise when the atmosphere is richest in prana and most nourishing for meditation.)