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 Béguinage,
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.