Issue 12 · 2009



The First Show of Dusk


  by Sandra Huber






I am coming to a conclusion. 

The day’s resemblance. 

The day’s long slender.    Every brick.    Copious


The inner caption of buildings

         tucked and foreclosed.  Is it today. 

A swan of light across the number 3, the door next


Is it tomorrow.

All in time the gait swallows go the gait swallows

   go –  


         Civil Twilight, Billy Daydream,

                  I gotta warning in the mail that the tide had passed the wind had sealed the day had come.







A soft conclusion. 

Not for lovers


or whimsical patrons. 

A jaded brow.  The raise of 5 from 3.

                                                   A door swings open, tinsel daydreams, my my my. 

         The time is close, the day alight and waning,    graceless. 

I swallow straightlines come on over.

For righteous morrow, ticking chrome, I tuck

                                                                  you in.  In

                           twice the time it takes to say the day








Then the warning. 

Swiftly yellowed time would tell.

Time would hear.

In copious gait of calendars swinging, a toast to








                                    I caption daylight.  Raise my


to the harmless wind the inner sphere.  Sunrise,

   singing, sunrise,

warning: the numbered days forego, say tinseled










A soft conclusion, then the coming. 

The slender hour jade and risen. 


                                                      Come on closer. 

   Take the sun,

the brick of days, the inner sphere. A simple math of 3

   by 5. 

                                               A dream swings open.

                              I touch my neck Billy Swallow.

Is it tomorrow.  I gotta whim, the brief of patrons,

   tuck of

                                    buildings, beckons in

         the wind and bends

                           the wind and goes the

         day and says the

                           day, arise.







I am coming and faster going. 

Anew, the day reminds. 

         Past the tide, the swing of lovers.  Hear, Civil    Twilight; see; feel.

         The tinseled hour. 

Cross through the narrow light, the brick of Sunday. 


                                                               Door next


4 and 3 now 5 and some now through: the

         day befalls,

                  the slender swallow sang

         at first.









The warning reads,

from the inner building,

graceless things. Plain

across. I caption

time and letters

no less. The chrome of hands, gait of ticks. Read

      My, my,

      y.  Is it today –


                  the wind – is clear and Billy, he,

         and who and where,

                  the dream is built I

         touch my neck, the day is near.




Sandra Huber is a Canadian poet currently living in Berlin, Germany.  She says about her work, “My poetics bends towards performing the written page—with focuses on space, rhythm, and extralexical components as salient parts of the poem.”  She curates the online journal, Dear Sir,.     


E · Poetry Journal