To know that there is always room for dusk in the body,
step out in open air and breathe—the day drowning.
Does this begin or end us?
A walk to think about it—the hour when time slips off and crumples
like the linen of a summer dress to reveal the forms that humble us.
There must be a word, however insignificant, for every imperfection we possess,
for failures to keep even smallest promises.
To beat back times we entertain these little wrongs.
What it must be like to turn away the dark, to call down light from stars.
Our poverties hung bare, a constant grain for each of our mistakes.