…the blue hour’s senate hitched as phosphorous, palmed at the pitch                                                                            
                                                                          of a street lamp’s arm, harassing with a phenomena of quizzings: an abuse set by abnegative                    
                                                                                                             hues,
“there is no resume,” I think, “save the melancholic parallax of stars…  

                                the harrying proximity of inevitable Harms”.


                     And at once a smile becomes equinox.