Sashuis

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.