I cannot unlove you;
when the morning sings out moonlight,
as the snow turns to ashes at dawn, I
gently finger the rough edges
of what you left of me, leaving.
Serrated, larger than life, sharp,
silently seeping with something red.
It is cold, the snow
scintillates, throwing tiny maroon reflections
back at the mourning sky where
all is emptiness. Illusion.
Oh, I ask the trees, how it’s done,
the fire, the silence, the wind,
and then nothing.
Peach-edged clouds sluggishly
revolve and pass, caring
nothing for those
not made of icicles.
holes in the universe
