Night Comes to the Evening Table

At day’s zenith.

The hearse of narcissistic night approaches,

Etiolates the remains of sunset,

A nightshade

Obsequious and vague.

The sun’s areola,

Disintegrating

In drifting cloud,

Is lost in the murmur

Of the wide winter sky.

© Kim M. Russell, 2015

Sunset the Sunday before Christmas