It is still difficult to find
a word for this
blankness—a pond
without reflections,
a guiltless sadness,
uncaused.
But for now,
we take solace
in the grandeur of fact—
in the logic
that even the lack
of imagination
must itself
have been imagined—
if only by one
who has long since
departed, some archangel
of the night,
that old star,
once ablaze,
now dwindled to invisible,
but still radiant
and hanging
above the innocent,
the long silent days.
