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Dusk is always moving
no matter how drab or plain,
but even more moving
is that desperate, final glow
that rusts the plains
when the last of the sun is gone.
It hurts us to bear that taut and distinct light,
those hallucinations imposed upon space
by the unanimous fear of shadow
which ceases abruptly
when we notice its falsity,
as dreams stop
when we know we dream.