The dusk was heavy.
When it sat, it made everyone slink into sleep.
It made tree-trunks wear braids of the dead
and tore the sun away from a bleeding sky.
It wore stains of lilac and gold on its pyjamas
and spun stories on satin skies
from gossamer threads.
It bangled itself in red carnations
that bloomed without sun and soil.
It wore telephone lines around its neck
beaded in feathered silhouettes-
a neckpiece that breaks
as birds break flight
to feed hungry beaks.
It bathed itself with pails of water that paintbrushes
and then leave behind
in search of better bodies to mark.
It made the sky look like the remains of a burnt fireplace,
blotched in colours that didn’t quite belong
The dusk made carts retreat
and brought down the shutters that clung onto rooftops,
like a child to a mother’s breasts.
It birthed a kind of exchange that careened
in spotless duvets
atop regimented wood
behind silent curtains that didn’t dare to part-
as bodies tried desperately
It was born out of a strange a feeling-
a feeling of not quite belonging;
of tumbling down the grass of gradients.
be bottled in monochrome
or mottled by colour.
Its charcoal gaze glazed the woollen sky
and its cherry-red smile
for the stars
To eat it up