Suppose the evenings stream through cables sheathed in black above the street, the sanguine veils of sunset just an incandescent bulb at dusk. Imagine mornings in the lamp posts under glass that pulse too briefly, making laughingstocks of dawn with halogen endurance til they flash and burn as afternoons of amperage painted flame. Consider constellations severed in the voltage sparks of trains at night, whose over-sated wages flood the dark with wattage mockeries of moonlit soot and dust, midnight slowly leached through concrete pores and asphalt cracks, and afterthoughts to light the switch so traffic never has to stop.
Suppose I’m walking in a wash of blood rose twilight breathing easily the seeping crimson wave that bathes these streets before it breaks.
Suppose the sunset paints tomorrow blue on bricks the opposite of these, and in this evening leaves the west in shadows.