the hour

There is an inconclusive hour
early evening,
even in a land of urban parking lots,
the air turns yellow inside out;
the greens are blue and bleeding.
Descent into night commences.

Water might pool from an afternoon rain;
the clouds might break just once again.

Then, ditches reflect the sky, and my sorrow,
At the hours, days I have spent
watching light tumble underground
like sand rolling in an hourglass.

Soft, it falls through dirty puddles,
escapes me.

My lifetime is an avalanche of sand and light,
of puddles with a mystic oily sheen.

And only sorry am I then,
with no breath left for anger.
Only tired am I now
With nothing left to do.

But to rest here for this yellow hour
With my sorrow and the water.
The anvil of the passing day will
crush the ripples flat to lay
like glass.

My brow has likewise softened but,
as the light slips soft, away, beneath,
I’m like a stone skipped hard across a wave
To the surface side I cling
Yet to my resting place I sink.

 

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