Sunset sets conceptually.
Daydeath dawns. Decay
writ large, writ regular,
routine withering
in the way we end the day.
Stop connoting soft death under constructed beauty:
lithe ghosts that float over fields of miribilis jalapa,
four o’clock flowers that flex out sweet sweat and hold the night in thrall.
Make it explicit: we blink, dark comes;
we shudder and forget. Death is a black patch
on a white wall; it is ash from the sky
that has settled at our feet. Evening
, inevitable. Evening, everyday.
No lack of windows, no number of bulbs
will undo the day undone————–
o, let’s say Like poetry,
the earth turns. Death, now, forever volta–
dark, dear, the final stretch of day,
and from it, morning.
