Twilight sleep
Richard Weaver

Each blush of its throat
            is an open vein of darkness.
An invisible silkiness
            not yet aware of its own death.
In the red-against-green blur
            that diminishes
there is illuminated the perfect likeness
            a limning of hummingbird.

Blond hands describe the singular
            flight into this heart
the moon lends
            its hapless pulse
to the already thickening shadows.
            Even now the night-air
and the red earth       glisten.

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