to put it plainly, the maroon of dusk suffered
when you flicked on the light of your bedside lamp.
the nighttime things, all shadow and warmth,
cowered at the violent glare cutting from your upstairs window.
backs bristling, their meddling, medallion eyes
burst forth from the place of uncertainty and you shrieked.
it was childish, you knew, and you swallowed the poisoned air.
a twilight-spotted doe crushed the artificial light underfoot
as she fled the scene. don’t go. your voice was rusted copper.
you felt all apparent, like an untrimmed peacock in Pucci’s Firenze,
and you hated the swirling dust and must that framed you in the lamplight.
the light went off. the maroon settled. you stood still and listened for the night.