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Serving Time
dead of winter
coldest night
wrapped up into the tent of some wise people
or so they seemed.
beneath, he cannot know,
nor do they,
but he plays along,
hums to their song,
wonders quietly if this
is where
he belongs
none here can
answer
his silent query,
that’s far from the
tip of the knife
in this night of
clear,
dry,
sharp
upon
his face.
the truth lies
in the asking
the sky mutes,
but only seeks his
eyes-
closed, but
wedded to the season
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