Post Dusk
The horizon a cut-out
of crest fallen sky,
geese honk
flying by, horns caught
in some rush hour
towards spring,
as smallish birds that don’t yet sing
buzz imitations of tree frog, bug,
define overhead wires in this grey hour
with ciphers of what’s just
gone West
(and its caress)—
I know one’s days are numbered,
but please not
the evenings.
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Drafty poem just for myself and Real Toads open platform.
ManicDDaily 
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