Suddenly the roofs are turning blue
The night tucked itself under a snowy shroud
The answers to our questions are spilled in dark ink
I rest my head on the stone of some other country
My love is asleep in the next room
With black trees that grow and black birds
Words blurry and unreliable on evergreen leaves
Soon he will wake up
His gouged-out eyes will glisten in the kitchen
On the cold tongue of silt he will declare his love
For distance
For that flickering flame
But for now he is still asleep healing the wounds with the water from the night organ’s bellows 
The night has gone a bit too far with blackness
The insomniac tenants are turning up their darkened palms