dusk, and how it speaks

the dull setting of peace drives bones to
outer limits, drives mind to tired
port.
eyes snap open, color flooding back
to observe the westering sun.
(do we grow old, eyes closing like
withered leaves in their time of dying
as we sleep, falling limply to a swollen
ground?)

I am no one’s great love, nor have
my hands built castles,
nor has my face taken them down.
I am not the long-winded muse
speaking softly and cruelly into the poet’s
ear; I am not the wind in the east,
shifting to knock against the madman’s door,
the shadow rising from the alcoholic’s
wall.

I am only the drifting,
one solitary flurry-flake, moving at a wanderer’s pace,
across the land, to be extinguished
upon touch.

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