Winter and as evening awaits the dark,
we gaze through cold glass, obsessing about love.
Clouds sweep the horizon, darken its arc,
and words black our hands, concealing like gloves.
I would touch you like this, hands under wrap,
hold for myself knowledge of what is real,
to avoid all that sentimental crap
and just get, "what I want"? out of the deal.
But the world-weary birds sigh a new-built
song, serenading worlds toward sentiment.
My stained hands bloom, baring their shades of guilt,
and question the fingers. Why are they bent?
As this thawing place steps down toward the night,
there, sparkles spring in the late-winter light.