No Answer from David

Gunmetal skies make grim
one's gratitude, what little of it
there is in January.

A pock-marked moon,
the full man of which rises early,
makes me think of it:

That Oriental print,
a sumi-e

with ink and wash
bamboo stems
white nothing
elsewhere
on rice
paper

but all I see is void tonight,
black absence. Twilight
crumples on the snow.

And so I stare at the rising moon,
looking for law that governs purpose
with planet and satellite,
but ask myself why did he stare,
when nothing's really black or white,
into the barrel of his gun?

Rest in peace.
January 16, 2010