Poem – Compact Dusk

Here at the height of the day night change
The color of the sky is uncertain,

The sky depending in which direction

One’s eye strains, each of its swatches a strange 
Hue which dies too soon and which makes this hour

Linger in the mind transient as a life,

Whose names once known remain another

Posied-up portrait on our palette knife. 
Until even I wonder if one tint

Ever survives the harm of seeming unique

(Evening’s intrigue, time’s singularity.) 
Study for its trace, its placemap, I see

— Redundant as a stopsign in italic—

The face on which my profile leaves no print. 

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