Night
The roots of true evening
Are not a pale measure
Of time, of distance between
Stellar bodies, bright flames,
Divine orbits of shadows.
Night arrives a limb graceful
As a gilded court dancer of Lane Xang,
Her hair unfurling
By onyx inches
With a smile bright
As the first dok champa
In bloom,
Departs in the morning
Like a dream,
A beauty in an orange dress.
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