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Twixt the Fingers of the Dawn
By Fortuita

The night, its sounds, the voices of its creatures,
The cries of fiercely-ravening animals -
How terrible and strange it seems to us:
When gradually what we call day appears
Is it not (just as night) unknowable?
	From Oriental Aubade, Rainer Maria Rilke

I sit idly, a hand unconsciously upon the other. My chilling fingers 
keep a touch upon your colder tight drawn face.
  Blindly I see the shuttered windows, behind which I know, can feel, 
the dawn has come.
  It draws me down, seeps life out from my limbs. Turning away from 
its burning magnetism, I face West, to feel the sun's last death. 
Placing my other hand upon the countenance of my love, so upon 
awakening, can feel your wounded beauty's first slight move.
  Settled, clasped and wrapped, I sleep, die in your arms, a single 
blood red mark left upon the pillow.

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