in the evening, when blue
meets orange, and there
is a kind of silence to the sky
and the trees, and you think
about the things you can only
think about when its dark,
there is a certain empty
you feel, like you are
a thief in the night, and perhaps
it’s the night you are stealing,
like the things you want
to say become a drain
for rain to travel through,
to gather gunk and mud
and mess, and you feel the empty
of the drain, and you remember
when the sky was blue and not
orange, and when the sky
was orange and not black, and you try
to steal the stars, and you try not
to feel the empty, and you feel
and you feel and you
feel.