Sunset, Toronto, July

the city is blushing a
pink paint,
embarrassed by the
sun’s avid attention,

with concrete, UV love.

a group of four sits
pleasure radiating from each
positronic pore:
talking time,
conversing cacophony.
events come quick

to the horizon.

the brazen brazier sinks,
becoming a cold collier of coals
burning the sky breath blue,
purple and heather hues
toppling down to

leech the last drops of
liquid light –
four intake inhalations
cascade, drawing deep the
nuclear cool-down.

chemicals swirl around
shoulders and somehow,
the wind-god finds us
and forms his o-mouth around
the drowning sky,

whiskers curling complete
in the deadening doldrums
of dusk.

sunset, in the city,



  1. Why, thank you sir.

    p.s. I am going to write a song called ‘Mr. Bail’, sung to the tune of ‘Mr. Plow’. Mostly because that’s the extent of my musical talent.

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