The Color of Dusk

So we arrive at the point
where we left off,
the point where the light
combs the cement
for idiosyncrasies, ideomotor

responses, a reflex of tourniquets
mumbling for insulin.
A shot is fired
and subsequently ricochets
off of the steel panels.

Sound is symphony.
Objects of thought.
We extend our obsessions
toward geometric signals
afflicting the horizon line

and fashion a graph.
Silently swept in a conversion
to verbs with our tongues
basted in salivary outpour.
She whistles for a papier mache

rendition of “Blue in Green”
screening the shade,
while I talk down to the roaches
lumbering the floor.
Their sheen reminds me

strangely of home.
The light begins shaping itself
into a casket to cradle
the darkness.
This is what is known

as validation in certain aspects
of experience, though
you wouldn’t know it
from the way it foams.
Dribbles of pink and orange.

Dribbles of sulfur.
Modified pools.
She unlocks her lashes
to reveal irises
the color of dusk.

-r. miller


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