I Hate to See That Evening Sun Go Down

 

Sun teased in its last copper hour,

a keyhole in a red oak door,

revealing a room

where night wears nothing,

but black tresses

and dabs of rose water.

 

She whispers to her vanity

in the hush of self-solace

and fingers the latch to a

strand of marquise

like fetters

 

She’s captive of a masquerade

chaperoned by a hourglass;

Each bisous

tepid as a forgotten bath,

each diamond

a cigarette burn

on naked flesh.

 

 

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