Early Twilight
darkness moves like a
mast's head across the sky, before
whitewashed fisher falls under the sun.
pink and orange still cry ebony —
with her sky's waves I try to run;
colors can't kiss for my tongue,
and hidden oars are burned on the clock's dock,
pass her fins, can't fly, on blue lungs.
the sky's shoulders that were shaded with dark
are now heavy with morning birds, that sing
and dead dreams; too much light
for waking innocent eyes —
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