'Ere the Twilight
The sky breaks into mauve moths,
fluttering against the unlighted bathroom window.
Three minutes ago, it was a solid, stern day,
now the trees rustle and tap with purple rain,
and the sun has been hidden
by a secret mountain that wasn’t there before.
The insect of thought retracts its claws,
wilting in the lavender hour.
Perfume of light hangs heavy in the hallway,
while the tap listens for footsteps that never come.
The horizon bleeds red,
a slow, velvet hemorrhage,
and shadows blend into a silent, watery, inverted sky.
It is all over:
The horses have forgotten how to run,
and the moon is busy hanging glass stars on the pines.
It weaves a new net for the waking dream.
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