Writing a Sunset poem at Sunrise
Chickadees on the tips of the gilded pine trees; a single
the river all tulle.
The sun only vanishes as reflected in other things: furthest buildings,
a tug – the slow romance of its dirty cargo slipping
to the estuary, smokestacks blinding with what I can’t quite see;
the world, turning away from us all again, no, just turning
& night arrives in small
crows leaving –
over the water they vortex awhile, a higher current washing
through the city then, to some incomprehensible retreat:
we don’t even understand ourselves.