Perhaps December’s daylessness is not the end

of hunger. Still,

what is the difference between light and no

                     light? The body and no body? If the future is temporary

refuge. If the existence of narrative means

                       no one belongs to memory anymore. In the dark

dark rain, not even the fragment shows

mercy.

               To trust in the visible world when the fragment has meaning

only in relation to others

means I’m afraid of all I have left

to forget. Through the window,

                       light like a grey horse falls where you once were.

Who cares for you now? Who alive might know

how small, how futile

               a life is, what the light is capable of without anybody to interrupt it.