In a shell . . . the light turned,”
That’s the news of the world
That’s not the world, that’s us.
I sit out on a porch
That is in the first wave
Of dusk, the trough, when lights
Are not on, stars not out,
But the sun is down, and
A finch, gold on grey, can
Shoot through plum skies it shares
With black kisses of bats.
