Split Decisions

by Kurt Facknitz

My tepid anger seeps slow

like hot tar between my fingers;

The sun shakes the ice

off the surface of my eyes.

The winter settles

and the dawn is smoking,

colorless and open;

Her skin, speckled with stars,

taking refuge from the blackness.

Its softness tempts me kindly.

Many colored eyes move slow

between the mirror and my heart,

begging questions.

I offer no explanation.

None suffice to breed either my content or theirs.

I wait,

But I hear no wanting whisper.