I have come to realize that sunsets are
archways into a mourning and deft Earth.
Urban streets become hunting grounds –
growling crass echoes to her ears;
eerie red eyes.

Swimming in this sea, the fish come to feed –
fields upon fields of endless black concrete
caulked with hands reaching from shadows
shan't see us. Artificial lights,
like showers, swing.

She is unyielding: a light in nothing,
null to the very gravity she bends.
Belle, eyes that swallow fireflies,
fight a darkness that dawned in her:
hurt by dulled sheen.

Walking close enough, providing armor,
our coats barely touch: nylon on her wool
would give a warmth street lights can't give.
Gifted by moon's light, only then –
then I see her.

A flower, healing yellow, on her cheek
chiefly blazon the frailty of her skin.
Skiffs could take her from bottom,
but, she’s sun grayed; a soft hidden
hymn of the moon.