Hands can catchwater from a streamfor drinking or the gatheringof stones, or the feel of somethingcold, pure, elemental.Grasping the dark is harder.Winter’s rough airslips through outstretched fingers.Unembraceable nightfills with wisps of wanting,thoughts of old lovers, the deadand dying, falling through space.Our open palms hold onlylamentations. We awaitthe promise of fire, receive onlydarkness,and bow under it, bow to it,the unseen star.
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