You take a seat,
your boscage held onto
in finger deadened by
algor, and gaze
at the twilight heavens as it were
it might prorogue its cruxes
with a whimper
evocative
of storm petrel
in the radiance
of early sunrise
and fly down
to take you
to paradise on
sparkler-caked
aileron.
You stare at the light
bop on the pond.
Sightless to the swarms
going by, you grip
to the outlandish ease
that comes with the macrocosms,
gazing at as small hours
lean on the weary
horizon like a welcoming
inebriate.
As he
gyrates in the disorganised
expanse, accepted
highlights come into view
on his awning,
and he thinks
he knows the feelings
of the sun as it
descends.
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