the gloaming hour

lying under a sugar sky,
she lets the champagne burn her throat.
lips, drenched with want and wild roses,
ask me to paint the dusk with words,

but for once, I do not care what
the hot-eyed moon or cicadas
might be saying. the space between
her smile and mine is thinner than

a whisper, almost vanishing
in the twilight. at last, after
a hush has crept over the field,
I say: the deaf world sleeps tonight,

never knowing you are a god
of evening flowers and always,
how the song of your bones wakes me
at midnight, calling to my own.

a/n: and I believe that if she tried, her eyes could halt the sun from sinking. june 23, 2010.