Rather than a beginning.
The stars trace like signposts along its border;
Street lights pin it to the earth.
And the cold is settled firmly in between.
Pressed against the border of all there is,
The one thing we share with the stars:
The sharp edge of the night's black glass.
Under the row of street lamps,
My thoughts are cast into the night
As if stones skipped upon bottomless water.
Faith has become a guessing game about
What is on the other side of a wall.
The grey wisps of my breath
Break against the cold,
Disappearing as if swallowed.
I really love this.
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