There is a color I call `evening‘ —
it sleeps on the sill of my eye,
just above my cheekbone
Which is fat as baleen.
Its landmass, a city of glass
With bone shops
Situated alongside snow-born water,
as though they were young apple trees.
As I reflect on its existence,
I remember that the Moon, too, is dark —
And that most of the time,
we do not see most of it.