pen park

today in the park
of moss thickening and fog rising
to the occasion of our grey star
everything falling apart
damply, calmly, without protest
against the frost’s definitiveness

i knew it would be easier to be empty,
the cold offers the comfort
of the hard ground – but what is it

about this desire that it fights
for its own existence so strongly, even
when it will surely never find its
object? giving in, all would be peace.
clinging, the chaos.

though, to be honest, this wanting
under the shameless trees and the crisp moon
on the cusp of a darkness – it is its own solace,
a kind of company to keep,
a warmth between my hands, standing
in for you -

and it will do -
it must, it has to -

taking the park inside…

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