twilight hewn mauve
from lightsome fire of eve —

of us, knowing our ends,
sighs finished float upstream

of you, knowing your beginnings,
flashes of flyblown leaf dropping
into the paling autumn

of i, wording it fresh out of
unapologetic twinges, dropping signs
on the world, their sorry beckoning

of us knowing
our ends shying away from
a once-told beginning
when silence fell
on our bodies, it is much more
telling than the last word
unheard by the sky.