Edge of Night
At the edge of night, the sky thins to ink,
day’s last breath bruised violet and blue.
Shadows stretch their silver spines,
slow animals learning the dark.
The sun slips away like a secret kept,
leaving embers tangled in cloud.
Windows wake with whispered light,
while streets swallow their own names.
Time loosens its tight brass buttons,
and thought drifts, moth-soft, toward meaning.
At this border between belief and sleep,
the world exhales—
and even fear feels briefly feathered.
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