big red sinking sun
hangs low, and the
horizon is a canvas;
that silhouettes
dance eerily on
for night is coming
and the yellow moon
has a cold numb glow
the leaves whisper
a swishing melody
dreading the touch
of a cheerless moon
that paradoxically
makes  the girls swoon
on this nightmarish evening
wolf whistles slice the silence
with a sick aching desire
atop mythical wings
speak softly and hold me close
strange things can happen
on nights such as these