For all the world,

I'd not give this view out west


Where true friends gather to watch

the day burn itself out, in a peaceful explosion.

Amidst the dying beauty of plants and

muddy remnants of chlorophyll carpet,

we watch faceless drudges, unaware of elemental beauty;

heart-destroying to watch, yet transfixing.


The solitary dirge of the swan:

this time of day,

and this time of year,

the widow of both glide toward the west,

an ascension unparalleled.


We all descend into a warm, silk-like darkness,

just as liquor. The silhouettes of barely-clothed treemen,

settled comfortably on half-lighted

cloud cushions, wonderfully drunk and sedate.


Not for all the world.