Digging a Trite Argument from Some Sand for the Last Time

Sand Across

The old luminous gush is gone. A day lasts me: I think, of the faces between us, which formed as easily as the last strands of light twisting to earth. Walking to you, definite and resolute, but you recede unformed like your presence after that last strand whisped off.

“We can’t walk to the horizon, it’s blended itself.” You say.

As complexities turn architecture from its space-making to a source of argument (which I note), stand back! (Littleness–imagine animals called like a species of “trite” that burrow around–with their cares in mind.)

When we argued we became them, like the color of leftover dirt stuck on cloth touching our skin hot under the brazen twists abundantly twirling from above.

The rays gone, down from their last shine, no one will glimpse an arguing edge or razor of doubt in our newly darkened civil world.

Could it be heaven alone with the distance to blend the lines of buildings? Or is this the horror of an absent sun?

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