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
