Flamingo sunset and heron dawn...
and distances between fire and water.
The reservoir of evening comes, changes.
Reflections burn and then go on to dark.
They slide beneath an uncertain surface,
to catalyze dreams toward the morning.
Sunset is colored like the heart's plasma.
Sunset weighs many stones of desiring.
Then comes the razor glint of long night,
a slide down edges of old nightmares
with a mute chorus mouthing mockery.
But when the heron dawn opens opium lids,
the new day breaks open a fresh egg of hope.
At least for an hour or maybe two,
chemistry stabilizes into stoic waters.
For a little while the liquids are clear,
and affection settles pure, selfless.