Light sways over dusk bridges

in shadow of horses.


Golden octave of composers floods narrow streets.


In a long-dried violence of color,

evening’s old suicide

hangs back in locked museums.


Above the B├ęguinage,

Through crooked relic of willows —

Stars slowly lose synchronicity.


Dark waves return along the coast,

As bells and terns count a falling circle of hours.


Black oceans wash away even time’s finest agates.