.

The View From Here

dusk 

drops 

like silk 

across a fleeting-green 

escarpment, here, where 

Fall maintains an incomplete 

equation (as of yet) with my 

molasses-mellow buzz n'clink 

of coffee cup containment and, 

in café-style, stirs the trailing 

edge, a drift of thought devoid 

of time zones, airfoil for 

expresso-wings stretched 

wide as if to thrust the night 

back up to sky, like lifting angels 

with a lust for wind, for shoving 

off, for navigating oceans under 

stars bucked high by force 

'til all are out of sight, 

and all in preface for 

self-flagellation