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here the evening pours
like water through the shutters,
twilight- the world suspended in sapphire syrup,
cerulean amber, electric
blue. sunset is long 
gone, lost in rusty grey and
tarnished glow to the west;
above is the moon, frosted and veiled.

it is with longing that one might
imagine now the stars, the crisp clarity
of black and silver, blue and gold
moving on some unfathomable axis
far slower than earth, more ancient
than the minds of men may ever know, 
numerous beyond even
number. But
none will be counted tonight, perhaps save
a scatter of trembling pinpricks,
for in our own arc to such glory 
as the Heavens’ we have obliterated them, 
colored them dark. beauty thus marred is
more terrible 
than darkness, than 
no stars at all.