this dusk clings to my chest, cleaving to

my breast,  i

cannot shake it off, it presses on my

heart, my lungs, taking the last of my will,

leaving me by myself,

leaving me without breath,

i blame the sky,

the slow cooling to purple, the

earth’s red mirror, and somewhere,

somewhere in between, that

smooth silvery disk

(she has company, and

what company, the evening star,

the rising Venus, I ache for

something so portentous), that

smooth silvery disk

which mocks me for my selfness, my owness,

my aloneness, my jerky steps forward

(i know how smoothly she can move) –


i move through this world,

moving amongst

and through

and over

and under

so many other(s)  strides and steps and motion,

none of which can ever be