In a fatal blue fugue,
she bruises
the edge of an hour.
She swallows the
Evening’s clear cries
of dark-dipping gulls
flung across the sunken wound
of Sunset.
Her brash toes dissolve through
the wrinkly-white
sibilance of quiet Tide;
her cloudy dress of Pastel Sadness
dragging carelessly behind.
A summer child is Twilight,
as overhead, Night begins to swim.
And in a rasp of
Rain-stung wind
she mutters something soft
and inarticulate
as she kicks away
the last cherry shadows
of an old rusty day.
