Awaiting Dusk

Today, my eyes are heavy from the spell of dreams.
I cannot wait until the clear sky trades its bright hues
For nightfall. This firmament is turned day after day
By invisible hands; fiery crimson in the afternoon

Bleeding, soon revealing the purple backdrop
For dusk to commence. Mystified, I breathe in
These thoughts so fondly. Whose hands could be
So slow and subtle to stir such wistful wakefulness
In me? They make me linger long enough for eventide

To flush all lightness down the horizon’s drain,
Illuminating brilliant holes on heaven’s floor
Which my eyes map to draw webbed lines over
One star to another, peer closely into distant planets,

Study and understand satellites. I imagine
The moon’s faithfulness would yet again rouse
Higher waves in the nearest shore, as I stand here
Still, looking after broad daylight. I’ve no qualms
Recollecting that night, when once I grasped
What the slowness of subtle hands meant—

How they inched gently to release
The drapes upon my eyes, examined the lines
On my palms, and held the webbed spaces
Between each finger, to which they fit. How the night
Left my eyes heavy from the spell of dreams, lying
Ahead in the wake of the sky’s turning.