centrifugal movement is always away from the center,
physics demands leaving.
sundown, the pastel sadness
of a horizon failing.
night.
the moon shows,
a half round
glint in the slick
curvature.
the dream of countless stars reflected.
all pass, anchored elsewhere
arching into memory.
the crows,
small flecks of night,
call a slow atonement for the dreams.
the sun a bruise yellowing to another day,
already my eyes are blue
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