Without

Curling the caressed, crisp
Utterance of it’s nearness
Like a premonition,
The moon was amber-shot
As if wintering leaves
Were a crown in the soft chill
Of a black stare.
It is the potential of warmth and cold,
Of light and dark,
It is the generosity of possibility.
It is here that I bleakly
And somehow peacefully
Think of you;
It is the luminescence of the dispossessed.