The
First Show of Dusk
by
Sandra Huber
1.
I
am coming to a conclusion.
The
day’s resemblance.
The
day’s long slender. Every brick. Copious
time.
The
inner caption of buildings
tucked
and foreclosed. Is it today.
A
swan of light across the number 3, the door next
door.
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.
2.
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
begins.
3.
Then
the warning.
Swiftly
yellowed time would tell.
Time
would hear.
In
copious gait of calendars swinging, a toast to
hours.
The
brick
a
shade
too
narrow,
I
caption daylight. Raise my
glass
to
the harmless wind the inner sphere. Sunrise,
singing,
sunrise,
warning:
the numbered days forego, say tinseled
eyes
hel
lo.
4.
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.
5.
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
door.
4
and 3 now 5 and some now through: the
day
befalls,
the
slender swallow sang
at
first.
6.
Closed.
Arisen.
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,.