The intimacies of half-light loom in the indistinct hour.

Mute weavers- nudging one another,
voluminous and pale.

Light exudes her milky latex.
Porcelain hand,
reaching towards the cool umbra. Always reaching.

All certainty ebbs here, in the achromic film.

The manes of the spirits gap the dusk floating as spectral pappus.

They are shaking.
So many spaces between the gloom.

And yet, only to divert the hospitable darkness..
The opening, enveloping absence.

I want to think of the fireflies, their universes of warmth.
Opening and closing their bodies to darkness.

Always.