Sunday Night Solitude

Through a window, glaucous dusk scatters lingering light swallows summer in a dim, opaque film

oil pastel of smeared sunset drips off the black canvas of night

a candle flickers orange on a lacquered side table

night finally irons out the sun’s last wrinkles somewhere, an owl hoots on a hollowed branch

tension thaws after the second glass of white wine is it raindrops, or candle breath, or moth wings

gently hurling themselves against latticed windowpanes? stifled—a gradual volcanic crescendo tea kettle feet idle on an unvacuumed Persian rug wrinkled newspapers lie mute beside the couch

an unclenching of the jaw muscles slacken

shuffle of the dryer, clinking buttons as cloth swirls muffled drone of a television mind absorbs your absence its weight a drawing down, a sinking

flash of lightning, ephemeral might have been the eye blinking silence magnifies solitude undercurrents of yearning

the body is a magnet metal calling out to metal tea replaces alcohol herbs linger on the tongue

apricots perspire in a ceramic bowl from the kitchen, a waft of their sweet, somnolent flesh the body feels itself aging youth recedes with each breath

beauty melts like wax in the August night only two candles left flickering three snuffed out a child’s bedtime approaches wine leaves a hazy film on thoughts at this moment, where are you?

your hands – what do they touch? and tonight, I wonder, where have you placed your mind?