After the sun bleeds
colors into the sky white
stars are scattered like
diamonds thrown across
the violet black. The night seeps
into edge of morning
and a thread of light spills
like churned buttery cream.
Mottled pink is brushed
against linen clouds,
inking the faded shades of night.
Wires are strung above
their houses, their tops
frosted slate. The snow, burning,
is like the artic
methane on Pluto.
Ripples of opaque crystal
are created by solar winds.
On which glass white shines,
a tin hued surface like plastic
sewn on egg-white
costume dresses, gems
under strobelights on stage, dancing.
Wings, dust colored; soft
like the thick darkness
receding into the brewed,
aeged morning. Beating.
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