West goes down on the setting sun,

explicit in orange-pink detail.

A shadow-streaked culmination.

Are we tangible now? Tangled in short strangulations,

barely breathing, but still here.

The visceral; sobered and soft-skinned, something different.

Non sum qualis eram, she says. She doesn't speak

the language, but she knows the sounds.

West goes down on the setting sun,

never to be seen again.