Member-only story
After Hours
1 min readJul 8, 2019
A poem about evening.
Dusk spills like frost
Handprinted and cloud-tossed
A moonless eclipse
Sunspots rendered in monochrome
A glass-blown dome
Graphite illusions roam
Flitting past rooftops
Yet awake in the afterglow
For who should know
What the twilight might sow
Every patchwork tune
Strung like a parody of rhyme
The trickster’s time
Makes the average sublime
All for the splendour
And the most bewitching of shows
