None of this is infinite

 

thumbprint cloud

 

The slate, not yet wiped clean of every

Trace of daylight, chalks out dusts of cloud.

A message once was written, for the evening,

White thumbprints of a loving, childish god.

 

How every evening, in the cooling out

Of a once-bright sky, is always desolate:

How every summer night is always the last,

And takes its quiet sadness gently with it.

 

Remember, none of this is infinite.

The endless sky is only air,

Imprisoning colour, only light

Refracting light.

 

How even nights grow intimate

In death, and why we hold them there,

Imagining tomorrow in the sight

Of greying sight.