How easily it goes down into
How softly its replacement comes
Shifting color through a line
Of clouds far enough to be
Unconcerned with those inside
The dome gone vulnerable
Carnations brightest where
Their last forms drain
To the edges of what thinking
Would like to think it looks like
Nearly nothing you can do
About the stubborn air
Spreading rust through peach
Toward repeat apocalypse
Before the wholly blue hour
Darkness will be freedom from
It doesn’t have to be at all
The way it totally is
But that’s tradition for you
Every day an open casket
Your eyes are about to close
So you can hear better
The changing of the color guard
That they are and aren’t
A fantasy of white in which
Nothing’s much more than enough
