Evening slides in, hushed from the heights,
Tilted chin and gazing blue iris to blue stratosphere,
An attachment to precision whisper-weighs in,
I need to name it, this lofted hue of curved cornea.

Is it a thirsty, dusted violet, drinking long echoed starlight,
Or an origami navy, folded into itself like a compacted heartbeat,
Again, and again, til the edges blend and there is no ebb to the flow,
Only the one sound of sky stretching round and round.

Touching and sorting all the words to put a name and category to beauty,
Is a driven distraction from the other sacrifice thrumming in my thorax;
To feel the beauty you must allow your lungs to open and your heart to hear;
To open your heart is to let something in, and to let something out.

I do not always think of love, lost like a lantern on cimmerian shores,
A promise that travelled too far away and found out the world was flat,
Instead of curved like a planet, like a sea that always finds sand.

Yet when the deepened sky sinks in that longing embrace into late evening,
When the horizon faints ever so slowly like a deep, sheeted exhalation,
I sigh, and out slips the memory of love's exhortation.