The stars in their bright braille expatriated, perpetually beyond reach. The Lord's electrician has left his work. Outside, homes in the orderly rows of a cemetery. In each room, lamps of hurting, dimmed for the night. Your absence travels me alone in the street with my maculate instinct and the privilege of listening to the street sweeper in the distance making curbs immaculate.
Trees earn their humble altitudes in shadow.
Mountains rising at the edge of earth. Waiting for orange music. There's a hive, with important darkness, searched as the heart of a church is searched in prayer after awful reckoning. Sure, it's nothing physical or seen. Like a name, the center of a nowhere.