With noon knowledge and noon dress,
shadows, they say, grow shortest,
might even wholly wane at Equinoxes
under Libra or Aries in the tropics—
the way a soul might leave a body
yet still persist, linger
as rumor, recurring ring,
or like a name that tugs an ear.
Surely, and yet one may still ask:
in which relation to the sun,
to time, even at which hour,
at which turn of life,
mortals feel, even are, more honest,
less inclined to split who we are
under veneers and shades
emblazoning somebody else?
And as it appears to me, the hours
of the day do mirror stages of human age:
the early opening where new unknowns
beckon those alive, ready to stay curious;
then in mid-day, one begins to learn
what fatigue, along with entrées served,
and by evening, one tries to change,
catch up with what hasn't been done.
And so with evening dress and knowledge
that hearts, either jollier or melancholic,
dispense, empty into wine shops, pubs, bars—
she may sometimes take a stance,
and here much depends on whether with
or against the sunset, when words
themselves rise like easy-to-read fingers,
impressing seal, measure, on the lips.