Runners of the evening golden hour
carry sunset on the napes of their necks
as the light lays its bravura decline,
tuning down the tilted, thinning rays,
matching the longest of the shades
while night already gathers from above,
opening its arcane vault in hues of violet,
with each measured yet unhurried pace,
like a breath that waxes sublime, musical—
everything continues, along and on the move,
yet also turning still, each in its distinct way.
And you wonder in whose kindly deepened eyes
an inner room, once broached, would widen far enough
to resound the falling dusk and its agnate rhyme.
