And the sharp dark corners of winter unfold
Chiaroscuro and creases
and uncertain lines.
He does not know me
And yet I draw him
My own contrived deity.
His words stained
His hand the plot of Anna Karinina.
Not knowing
I threw him away
Then drew him again in Rodin’s Thinker.
Again.. a star, light lost.
Again.. a fish, swept transient.
But he was not any of these
He was the night, unfolding hands.
His mouth mapping words
Each one a city for the cynic.
Our lips encompassing encyclopedias
Charting maps with brumous boundaries
Endless words left prone and cold
Under the stars of Jupiter.
