Dusk I

Well it’s that time of the day again.

The walls and the curtains have sunk a tone,
The picture frames  have gone shadowy -
Absorbing the immortal jaws and necks .
The sunset chiaroscuro burns with a sincerity
That light would perhaps undo.

The tree tops on the west of the garden
Have not yet relented. But the gold is wan,
Slippery. Inexorable, the dark liquid glides
Onto my carpet, bleeding upwards, staining
The room. Even the flat premature ceiling
Is finally entombed.

The early black is the time of accidents,
Of possessives, memories and discoveries.
There the edge of an old letter, singed deep
In oblivion, unwanted, elegizes the memory
Of an afternoon, thwarted.