Crepuscular
Crepuscular We busy ourselves so it's hard to remember this stillness. This timeless curve of twilight, when minutes stretch from hours passed -- tight chambers where uncharted streams run under hoards of things we've forgotten and walls glitter memories -- opening into yearn -- the touch of air on maybe, night leaning against a column, fears blown about like bags we could collect or ignore, in front of an ecstatic orange settling sun.
