The Absence of Wavelength

The Thinning Days

In the sepia sea --
nothingness, but a
cuttlefish amid clouds
watching these thick masses thinning --
russets and golds
covering my weary head,
bury the green-bladed surface,
dying with me.
The glow intensifies one more time,
before fading over the fence
to hidden horizons.

I scan the dusks' red warnings.
Autumnal tides fumble
toward white solstice, pale,
decay a heart in personal purgatory,
yearning a perfect season
rewarm this soul
with still-beating heart, aching.


9.24.20
9.24/28.21 rewrite
18 lines