The day will be over with soon.
First the sun lets go of the green
and then the shapes of leaves.
It even lets go of the trees.
They edge back from the light.
See the last thing now,
the smokestack, how it slits
the sky to let night slip through.
Maybe some day we will ask
who we were, what part of your face
vanished when I knew you'd leave.
We let history take over everything
that seemed livable, let it
forget the fabric of you slipping
from my hands, now,
when the night starts to cool
from a day of fire
into a meteor's quick gesture.
Maybe tomorrow's new heat
will color everything
like a memory.