waiting

always on the stairs,
or in a lift, or on a path or street or hill that is
not there, but on the way, or
going to. where you see
nothing all around you
unread books on dark-shut trains,
silent taxis.
windowless rooms.

at christmas
in the church, uncomprehending
looking at your life
and seeing not the star,  but just
the hole where it should be, while you wait for him
and wait,
then wonder,

when he's given, from so far away,
light,
for the one
who can't believe.