Red skies swell with painted clouds of purple and gray.
Her dress, white and fragile, brushes against the kitchen table leg.
The falling sun projects the window's outline onto the far wall.
I drink a coffee, and she reads aloud from a book about Yeats.
Life outside levels and settles, readied for dusk.
The table throbs in rhythm with her foot bouncing as she speaks.
Debussy plays; a page turns; a boy outside calls for his dad.
Fiery is the sky with its assurances that IT will exist long after the above has decayed.
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