The sun is setting.
Again.
As it does. I suppose.
I am here still.
I hear. Still.

A blackbird screeches
the day’s end.
A siren scars the dusk
like a scalpel.

Fire in the sky briefly,
then gray.
I gaze at the horizon,
searching for the space
between any two things.

The moon hangs:
a mirror masking
for a moment
the dark? 
or stealing the light?

I’m still here, hovering
at my horizon.
It’s the only way:
words wax and wane,
we rise and rest, yet
behind it all,
like a wall of eyes,

we see and speak it.