Up on the deck the pink cascade of evening stumbled against a blue stop. Stars seemed fine as powder. The moon was golden, a Brasher doubloon nailed to the felted smear of milky way. Night knelt into the red bowl of Autumn; Summer died slowly, cloaked all in yellow, behind your shoulder. Fights on the street scattered under the water head. Brains hissed with poetry as rain dwindled. We heaped stones on the truth. We knew it wouldn't last like that. Night knelt into the red bowl of Autumn; Summer died slowly, cloaked all in yellow, behind your shoulder. The world without you keeps breaking down: the morning motorcycle won't stop idling, I can't cut books from their shelf, food is an accusation. Stars abrade, the moon is sold for scrap. Where are you?