sundown, the conspiracy to fell
all things lovely and true
drags on, slabs of laden gray
and drowned blues laid like
the law inside empty yard and
the dark keening street.
How do the days know,
they heap it on—
hue by hue,
blow by blow
the broken earth wailing
true names in long
chains, matter passing
states, beloved flesh
now cold clay decomposing
despite all we call and
crave, a return to
the warmth we never
hold dear enough,
passing the hours until
the past is the only
place left waiting.
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