Evening [ex­per­i­ment]

three kestrels are tow­ing the sun
about the wide smile sky
mag­is­te­ri­al­ly as it were
their in­sis­tent in­ces­sant
in­can­des­cence that made
it atom­ic in the first place

Horus’ houris herd­ing old sol—
who is al­ways still grouchy
like a wa­tery-eyed man
telling kids off his lawn
aim­ing for evening not evening.

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