Here at the height of the day night change
The color of the sky is uncertain,
The sky depending in which direction
One's eye strains, each of its swatches a strange
Hue which dies too soon and which makes this hour
Linger in the mind transient as a life,
Whose names once known remain another
Posied-up portrait on our palette knife.
Until even I wonder if one tint
Ever survives the harm of seeming unique
(Evening's intrigue, time's singularity.)
Study for its trace, its placemap, I see
--Redundant as a stopsign in italic--
The face on which my profile leaves no print.
Bill Knott
