if ever you've glanced sidelong
head bent
glint of beard catching
in those last ubiquitous
rays of a waning sun
(which I mourn for at
the witching hour between 7 and 8
on the tendrils of an abating spring)
then you've witnessed the papery veil
ever so fragrant in imagination
ever so dwindling in the afternoon-
of which I grieve it's dissipation.
That great evanescent tide-
a map of dew that plumes
across the hopeful iris
is sure
to blur
to envision its presence on the slick
underbelly of a thick rolling morning
is to prophesize splendor
to contemplate its arrest- remaining at the tip
of a lurking
violet night
would end in tragedy
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