Gloam tastes like gloom
but it goes down easy,
a shine that whines with sage,
whippoorwilling the wind
from the doomed west
to the blooming east.
Dusk births dawn
and vice sets versa
into unstoppable procession.
That's the thing about a process:
one thing follows the other around
until the other bites the impertinent one.
The reception was bad; the hors d'oeuvres
rotted under blue lights, indicting the horizon's
passage. Fermented hallways may interest
the buzzards but the rest of us can only handle
alcohol of a certain age.
Roman Ryan 