Sunday, February 23, 2020

Hours Are Accidents

Shadows grow as long as they’re going to get,
But then they don’t merge so much as dissolve,
As if the dim is seeping from the ground
And swallowing the last of afternoon.

It’s hard to see this, anymore, in town
Or outlying bedroom communities,
There being so many varieties
Of recently invented, short-lived lights.

Find an empty field somewhere, as scruffy
As you like—it doesn’t have to be wild,
It doesn’t have to suggest fine nature,
It just needs no lights. See? Dirt grows the night.

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