6:30

A certain kind of day
holds within it
a certain time of day.
 
The sky changes and
dusk snakes her way in.
She settles in all of it –
in the bag of the hound’s
bloodshot eye
And the far fine etch of the
moon’s silhouette.
 
In the corners 
and across my desk
shadows sweep the afternoon away.
I try to hold on.
Work is incomplete,
There are still tangles
I’ve yet to untie.
 
And the tender bud
I had upon waking
fails to open.
 
It’s just leftovers now,
and dishwashers.
The waste and remains
of tired patterns.
The same,
The very same problems
I had yesterday.
 
So I go inward.
And like the light,
I fade.