Thursday, March 5, 2015


Rising and shining and—still surprised 
to find you're
shivering a little

amid mad and starving winter's 
final and most 
unsolvable riddle—a cold light

weird and unwavering,
and silently blazing
in through your eyes, reflected

from each of these—
bizarre and uncountable 
glazed curbside sculptures;

not unkind
but neither illuminating—it can only be 

the supernatural light
of not-quite 

yet understanding, but rather 
of constantly

feeling that you might— 

and—of the apprehension
that you may 
not ever

have wanted
to understand—the conspicuous way
in which 

you desired 
your answer.