The sloping sky, the blooded sun,
clouds posturing in manic misshape
on the eyelid of the globe,
wind-drop peacefulness,
that special light
that gilds the western side of trees
and strings out shadows into dreams
reaching back into the dying day.

But all that’s segmented
in the window frame.
Warm firelight, not the sun,
ignites my cheek.
The television flickers in the dark
drawing my eye into another world,
chill smell of autumn smoke
locked out behind the glass.

Second hand evening
your square eyes die on me,
the curtains close.


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