Twilight, walking Britz’s field,
snowflakes like ashes of a colder fire,
like confetti of the world gone mad.
Pines on the flat east sky
scraped thick with a palette knife,
green blacker than green.
Fingers cold as blood
shunts to the core like pulling
inward, numb to the world.
This is not a love song.
There is not enough joy, not enough
sorrow. World gone quiet.