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.