Evening holds narrow clouds, shot through with bright
Bloody holy red. No trees. No birds. No
Great mountains break the hemorrhaging light
Of this dying sun’s twilight overflow.
Just the dark unmoving clouds. What a shame
That such pure majesty—brilliant scarlet
Rays emerging through their somber band (flame
Through smoke, spark through stone)—occurs. Most forget
That it exists and never glance up toward
The splendor of cloud hung sunsets, they search
For lesser lights—traffic ahead, a store
That sells fast food, cell phone screens. They lurch
And crawl within their dim lit view of earth
And think their lives are centered on their birth.