Spent the day revising and revisioning poems for a prospective manuscript. A day of verse. Chilly. Gray. So for color:

The Last Heave of Sun

Night reaches her purple hand across the table.
Daylight pulls away,
his clouds still out
pasturing around the mountains.
She a slight smile of crescent
whispers of Venus.

Despite the effort to regard their distance
his great wrinkles shade pink
and his eyes go papaya.

He cannot resist the emergence, her unfolding.

He gazes east again
careful to note the nuance
of her undress.

And so sighs the last heave of sun
settling into her.

She is the galaxy made bright by burning stars.

He a slow-lapped sand in love with an ocean.