Sunset #7397

Twilight had leeched the petals of their pink,
But still they spilled a scent like bleach, or ink.
Lavenders pooled on the last sheets of light,
Mimeographing day with tints of night.

You faced westward, head leaned against my chest,
Sounding my name. That may be what impressed
In me a copy of a copy of
A dusk common as anyone's first love.

For a Waitress

Table for one. I couldn't talk to you
Through that whole outdoor lunch break, so instead

I angled books, hoping the words I knew
Would mean more than the words I left unsaid--

But, no. I settled up while, overhead,
A jet's slow pencil edited the blue.

Clay Stockton

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