Sky Kinged
The sun has moved south
into a bush,
a rose golden blush
escapes, expands,
as if the sea
could be upstaged.
Shadows own the hour.
A slivered bamboo
banners a silhouette
in a wind so old
the birds ignore it
from the horizon wire.
The end of a day, a song, a plate on the table,
reflects the fog muscled light
of a yet starless sky.
The west is a catch all
of fates, furies, and futures.
What turns we take
to spin the globe.
In the year now gone
we moved closer to the cliff.
Our retinas retain each set,
the promise of another
is something we dare.
