The refreshing dusk drive, come on slow, on a two lane country black top, absolutely flat, the sky is growing dark, the pavement is cooling. The gradient of the night is from indigo over our heads, to the blue of dawn over the ocean before it turns white in morning, to green. A pale eyeshadow green lit from behind eyes afire or cast with the dew of lust, the steam of longing in a damp lit hall, to the small band of yellow. Yellow like a warm highlight raked across shimmering leaves, a dissolving spectrum, we breathe it in, to pink. Satin pink, your lover lays their body down next to yours, virgin bedclothes pink, mouth with lisp sounds pink over the phone, a wash, to orange. Dead ember orange burnt into the retina orange, the orange seen with closed eyes, dappled with green, your favourite fruit, mouldering, lemon and ash, haze, to the most severely bruised horizon. A brown royal grey film, spreading with the properties of a gas. If we had dreamt it, the indigo would ink down across this all to drape us in perfect night, dreaming a night of warm windows, floating at the bosom of a pasture, welcoming. The arms that wither in the light, eyes open through motel room windows see, without pulling back the curtain, the truth of bruised earth rising up across the firmament, the plainar sky wooden and unfeeling, the fireflies below the bugline exploding on windsheilds to constellate translucent green starstreaks against a colorless heaven.