The evening spreads its dusk,
orange dust on all—
life now pared to outlines,
a crayon weaving trace—
as it seeks to speak in waves,
like locks about to loose,
to shimmer, cascading free
in their rippling way—
across a shoulder lifted,
from which the dress
has slipped away—
folds of rolling swells,
while empyrean distance
dips her softly it its flame.
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