This blancmange of dusk—of melted coral lights has tugged the softest from the heaviest of heights.
Its face the color of yearning—cast down as mine.
Barely grazed round the head I must be bound inside the verge again—between what now may be moving and what has immovably since
the frozen wavescape of circumference undefined.
I’ve been wanting to be touched by a light such as this, but even urge when satisfied really quells nothing much—just like a tender eye lightly daubed in steady brine;
a song I play with passion that never will be mine;
the way I shuffle them, without one to settle on; the silence that I usually find— the kind that settles none.
Twilight shows me faint—the wait being time
we pine for clear desire—beyond this lacquered veneer of sky—vaguely painting fire.