evening
d. castleman
Child of our world's midnight,
i could see the floor strewn
with a cruel blood, and, beyond windows
those icicles groped the trees
in solemn gesture.
On this bitter human floor, a mother
hugged a child close to a patient dug.
Was it miraculous wonder
the child was unaware it was a sad year?
Icicles were swooning
as the air thawed.
The child understood that every answer
must be carved upon the lips,
as it drew.
Child of an earthly midnight,
you may never understand
when the mind is wrought intimately
by a god you do not know
and must not find.
Gods who prowl the inner cosmos
are subtle, and beyond reproach.
