Tips of flesh,

fresh with wind-nipped

burn, coil around

coal-dark heat

in cup, while

naked sun sinks

over blue crystal

streets, sides piled

rough with slush

of travel-beaten

Heaven's dust.

Bright flakes

fall from pregnant

dark like inverted

sparks, as soul

floats stark

above blackened

shame, buoyed by

invading grace;

whose mood is

matched by glowing

moon, swimming in

stars, and blessed

with solitude.