brownglass flarefoil

courting a high
a westward drive
a sunshade wards the setting eyes
charming a low
a southern grove
a sunset parry, the evening grows.

tintwind

steeped in evening
sepia air
amber tapestry
weaven hair
magistry
collapsing at the stair.

ecdysis

barely june and new york's trees
already moulting brittle leaves.

salin

he stumbled upon a salt stream
bubbling from a duct spring
into a gaping mouth sea.

the detachment stands to

I stepped into the day with hope, and now that it is evening my spirits have sunk with the drunken sun - hereafter I drink to the flush moon and the flagging tide.

That black sentence laid alone on the face of a page for more than a span as the man who typed it stared off, stared away, his fingers perched just above the grimy keys he poked when he wrote it - ten bleary lookouts, jaded by vigil, turning themselves yellow with slow smoke, weary, awaiting BMNT.