Quincy Lehr

At Dusk

The scene is set at dusk when I recall the way
she’d smile, a thin-lipped tug that hinted at
an alto laugh, but waning, just as sure as dusk
would only last a moment, then expire.

I know that there were mornings in the summer sun
and that her skin would tan, but I can’t see
it in the shade of memory; she’s always pale —
a promissory note from day to night.

I dream of transmutations of a rising moon,
the waning of the sun, and waxing stars,
but wake before the shadows dissipate with dawn
and sense her absence in the empty sheets.

Although I realise that dreams are rummages
through all the junk that moulders in our minds
— attics of useless stuff that we can’t throw away —
the evening light still lingers on the dust.