The White Night
In twilight watch the ache of day refute
the sin of color, leaching bark and ice
to coarse-grained greys and black water stumbling
over roots and snow-choked banks. Stop now: look.
There, where the horizon should be, buildings.
Black towers, alien glow of firebrand lives.
What could ever happen here, where outcasts hide
among trees weeping leaves, nursing heartbreak?
Playing dead in the cold, spying on great
cities shining in the murk while frozen
mud stings through torn boots. You could cross the
water, by wing or foot. Leave the ice
for steaming manholes leaking hell upwards.
Monochrome angels would not call you back.
