The Edge of Day

A labyrinth of dark moments,
time counted backward -
in each there is another
memory,
 
fingertips against uneven edges
and closed eyes,
this struggle
for a stiff unfolding
 
of what remains;
strength in these patches -
the hope of yearning
to be stilled,
 
another maze not wandered,
this winter path
beyond a ridge of lies 
into the white eye of day.

Flickering pigments
to be washed away
after steel thunders
of ships and trains -
the sudden leaving
of men;

loose women and children
that turn away
into doorways -
keepers of hope 
in its distant version
of rising prayer,

above tendrils
of anonymous dread,
winter bones
that force the earth upward
into the palms 
of our hands.