Three minutes ago is was almost dark.
Now all the darkness is in the
leaves (there are no more
low garage roofs, etc.)
But the sky itself has become mauve.
Yet it is raining.
The trees rustle and tap with rain.
… Yet the sun is gone.
It would even be gone from the mountaintops
if there were mountains.
In cities this mauve sky
may be of man.
The taps listen, in the unlighted bathroom.
Perfume of light.
It is gone. It is all over:
until the hills close to behind
the ultimate straggler, it will
be so again.
The insect of thought retracts its claws;
it wilts.
Margaret Avinson


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