Atop an Idahoan precipice

Atop an Idahoan precipice I straddle the night and the dusk. The last colourless streaks of the haunting limbo through moments in which all the surfaces gasped to hold in the final long rays of the sun, are slowly wrapping away behind me. In spots the stored radiance of day sputters together into cohesive bits, entries back into awakedness, meticulously patterned fabrics hanging in a sequence from frame to frame, capsules of the city reaching out to me in elongated streaks, the fresh sap of the lively inner world prick’d and drawn across the night as I race away from it. The wall becomes more broad in proportion, in my vision, as I move ever away from it. The windows, streaming forth verdant waves to enfold the car, hold me in the waking night where actions take place and reactions are applied to situations that occur between my self and the objects that I encounter. The light from these windows casts long expansive capes across the lawn reaching just to the edge of the curb. These are the hopes held at a distance, the regeneration that the day finds in the night, slipping away across the curb and I down the eastern slope of an incessant hill, ever toward night. Capes and puddles of light showing out billow and lap at the street edges, await my footprints, lick the tire treads, shiver it all forward; they too, after long swelling, yearn for final repose. It is when the day remains as a limp sheet cast from the distant portcullis of dusk, becoming night from its distant edge, closest to me, beyond the violet veil, that the luminous arms, reaching across the globe and up into the plains recedes, pulled back toward the day drawing with it my vision as the trailing edge snuffs out each sprig of the grass as my fingers trace, even the stored breath of day, in each chamber, loses ground to night, the plants, the grasses, darkened in degradation.