The opposite of dawn, of course; Another less common Name is crepuscule but I bet Few English speakers know that Or that it also means gloam. .
Silent before yet another Sunset, I suppose it dawns Upon many a man That one’s vocabulary, No matter how dazzling, Can never be a match For the unspeakable splendor Of one more dying day.
Too contented To know how to react When things go sour, what’s left Of the cows remains In various stages Of rot in empty stalls— And the phantom farmers?
Steeped as they were in high- On-the-hog atomic subsidies, One surmises they knew Better than to stick around Too long and high-tailed it Out of the premises While the milking was still good—
But this remains idle speculation Till the day they feel the answer truly Seeping in deep down in their bones.
Poetry had a soft spot in my heart hard To explain once I let it enter my brain.
Moderator’s comments:
Judging from his extended absence from this humble podium, Cinquor seems to have followed the advice put forward in another one of his memorable two-liners from the past, to wit:
Conceptual Prestidigitation
You look to have that precious gift of sleight; a present Better prized and appreciated when kept out of sight.
That space between your ears remains Shockingly grotesque, revealing A gross lack of fantasy in shucking it— Do not wonder then how it was all Those sheaves of corny poems you wrote And kept turning over in your mind That turned your hair white overnight.
Guffaw before the curtain goes up And the audience throws you An askance glance like you were A tragic actor in a comedy Of errors; keep it up after The curtain comes down And they all laugh along With you to the bitter end.