The sky surrenders to a mountain of smoke, the day carved from another ordinary inferno, light mingling with the silty sediment. First it is attributed the fire, this blur of the essence of the smoldering afternoon. Then there is that hint of the diminishing of the eyes. All infirmity echoing in the paint and drapery. All these fevers more than the symptoms of the flesh.
We glean all that the day leaves in retreat, these dull glows, these crass enchantments. Stripes of flame sieved through a redwood fence, yellow fires caught in the greens of trees. We sink below the precipice of someone else's coming dawn, memory clinging to the moments before words. Smoke blotting out the stars, the skin so warmed by abandon.
Dusk comes as the distance between smoke and the bright horizon. Dusk comes as a shadow and a hush. There is no record not undone by language. There is no reminder not hobbled by the tongue. The day leaves only skin and heat, the tracks of our rising and bought fall. This summer shelled with the colors of autumn. This season lingering as burn and flame.
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