• The snow falls.
    I look out into the black trees
    frozen in place, and in the
    sky your presence creates dark lines
    where a fire rumbles
    and the stars are engulfed.

    Your presence that does not exist.
    Because if I look in red-painted
    canyons and watery walls of
    silver hues, you are not there.
    Because if I look at every
    glimpse of blackness in a crowd,
    every glance that can cut through diamond,
    you are not there.

    Petals fall.
    I look out into the sugar-flavoured world,
    waiting for an answer from the skies,
    the skies where I can barely imagine you,
    as where there is light,
    you cannot be.

    And if you were, I would flow out
    in a flurry of purple creation.
    But if I look at my ancient words,
    past the desperate call to a raven,
    past the freezing and cracking of my heart,
    I cannot hear your presence.
    And if I pry apart the borders
    of the square in which I used to reside,
    if I look towards where I was born,
    I cannot see your presence.

    Nothing falls. All stays.
    And in the slow burning of my skin,
    my eyes search in vain for the night.
    Your night.
    Without it, how could I ever find you?

    The leaves fall.
    I barely notice, trying to find the way out
    of the depths of my mind, my tears falling slowly.
    Green imagination, blue gods, red conversations, white messiah –
    all destroyed. But none can compete
    with your holy blackness.

    A blackness I cannot find.
    For if I look at the memory
    of a frozen oasis,
    a perfectly ruined palace, and
    see you,
    I still know not where you are.
    And even if I pray,
    my hands splayed out in invitation,
    you will not come.

    The snow falls.
    Maybe this night I will find you.