winters late dawn is golden blue
like over a frozen santa toyland
frost
clings
heavily
on spiders half-thought webs like tinsel
the leaving night is a black smudge
and
i
turn
to see what the dawns got - its like a pic from a card
from
a
christmas greeting card
and just as flat
theres a drawn sliver of fingernail moon
and one dab of star thats a planet
no holy men
just a parade of vans
and a flat cut-out silhouette of black lung trees
later going home the sun is on the other side
and it falls and bleeds
keeping
almost still
and
playing with the rips in the clouds
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