New moon's thin blade cuts west
at peach-sundown;
bird flocks glide sun-feather translucencies.
Giving and receiving in stillness
is
of humane rituals the very crown.
Or why rolls a globe along a measure,
bobs a black plastic clicker-tip,
as sways
a page, gripped to a board?
Glaze smooths a gaze,
when hum-drum horizons spill sky-treasure
sheen fleetly fading to metallic grey,
no cloud asky to salmon, roseate -
Venus stationed under blade's threatened blow
(as if moon would ever venture violent play).
Trailing pink contrails, war-jets blazon so
wry,
deep-sunk sun
crayoning smiles on fate.
