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  The Evening Light Holding the Sleeve of Your Dress

Misfortune drifts, or expands toward a mayhem
that can mess you up, push you sadly around.

It's not something to dwell upon. I was fortunate
to ponder the evening's lucid attire, the vestige

of light. Mine was a living largely made of longing
for an ability you aptly possess—your gift exists

as a distraction I wander through as if real life:
the sun was red; the moon was gray; the sky

was love felt in the sleeves of your dress—darkened,
no, harbored as if by a lover's anxious hand. This

evening's fortune was to be blessed with fairies
where, for a moment out of kindred respect, you
      diminish.

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