Clouds like dust motes trip
along the mountain horizon,
and behind, the ocean horizon and
beyond: the horizon.
Children’s sobs seem so abrupt
in the evening air–torrential
and damp and demanding and
nothing is so plaintive
as dusk, settled tears.
An imagined twilight:
I plead. On bended knee I
rage at an amber sliver
in a smeared glass
and the absent sun.
This rage is simply
an illusion. I sip slowly and
stare into the vanishing point
at every turn and am stuck
by this obstinate silence.