How easily it goes down into
How softly its replacement comes

Shifting color through a line
Of clouds far enough to be

Unconcerned with those inside
The dome gone vulnerable

Carnations brightest where
Their last forms drain

To the edges of what thinking
Would like to think it looks like

Nearly nothing you can do
About the stubborn air

Spreading rust through peach
Toward repeat apocalypse

Before the wholly blue hour
Darkness will be freedom from

It doesn’t have to be at all
The way it totally is

But that’s tradition for you
Every day an open casket

Your eyes are about to close
So you can hear better

The changing of the color guard
That they are and aren’t

A fantasy of white in which
Nothing’s much more than enough