Twilightning

6 p.m. feels early because I rose at two, muddy-minded.  Maxfield Parish sky stretches out

like the figure of a woman freckled with wisps of cloud.

The air is stifling, thick like a builder’s fingers, painting this white shirt to my broad chest.

Peeling it off, I run my hand over my beard-shadow.  Roman crocodiles turn over in the gelatinous truths of Hemingway’s sentences.

The one unheard and the one unseen are approaching with soundless rumors of what lies in store –

a tropical downpour, a love of darkness, a want of light…

the music of drunkards and whores, my friends, shall narrate this night.

 

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