I’ve never seen the sky this color sort of egg yolk around the edges, but pale as milk above, until deepening to a shade like that of flowers. Here, this will help, exactly exactly like the color of the smell of summer grass. Not daytime green, when gnats are as breathable as air, though more often noticed—no, like this grass beneath me, all shadow scent and sound. Lying here, the world is tipping into night in that gentle mess above me/below me I’m waiting for first star. The velcro earth catches me with grassy barbs, but in a moment, in a moment the curving bowl of dusk will slip, and tumble, and pour upon me the omelet of a dying day, minus the red chili pepper sun.