And the sharp dark corners of winter unfold

Chiaroscuro and creases

and uncertain lines.

He does not know me

And yet I draw him

My own contrived deity.

His words stained

His hand the plot of Anna Karinina.

Not knowing

I threw him away

Then drew him again in Rodin's Thinker.

Again.. a star, light lost.

Again.. a fish, swept transient.

But he was not any of these

He was the night, unfolding hands.

His mouth mapping words

Each one a city for the cynic.

Our lips encompassing encyclopedias

Charting maps with brumous boundaries

Endless words left prone and cold

Under the stars of Jupiter.