the gone dusk is almost

 the gone dusk is almost

the losing of light at dusk is almost physical 

drawing the blood brain downward 

with its transmogrification of

the leaves that lose what autumn colour

they proposed was the old story

for not even ghosts are this cold

in the heart of watching it drain away

my lips slow in their wording

the cup to my lips poised in a

foreverness of the non-time 

of this lonely soul’s wondering 

where is the light going 

or is it the darkness that is coming

as i stare at its storing 

… it is gone

and no poem will ever bring it back

sometimes the flagellation of uninvited words 

has the disappointment of youth’s insistence 

that they know 

pitch black is almost a consummation