There has never been a sunset like this.
No scorched scarlet sky as damask
with cloud,
nor ochre-burned vista so patch-worked
with fields.
Roughly-cut corduroy and velvet and baize
blanket-stitched
together in a counterpane of sanctity.

There is the tree
pinning land to sky,
black
and piercing
the burning drapes, which slowly
warp and hang
in tangled charcoal tatters
around a blistering
orb.
Flame threatens -
a dangerous voyeur under
my comfort blanket -
slowly,
perceptibly
deforming thought
into a hazy,
lingering
blackness.

There will never be a dawn
like tomorrow.