Robert Verdon, #196, duskdream

proud boughs, blue-veined

with mirrored lightning

enarbour my half-sleep;

lithe plains beyond

demure as snowclouds

slope imperceptiblyundiscernibly

into my palm

(the sun has been

a tomato

but now

the mountains

have swallowed it)

parting the storm’s

lank hair, I skip

down the meek road

of birch saplings

to the border

of the honeyed night

the dusk

grey as blindness

holds a star

which gives me

an uncertain kiss

leaping through the glow

left by the sun

but it is a meteorite

and flies

into oblivion