I only shoot at magic hour

The dust at dusk
Is speckled-egg blue
Like the dirt that dusts
The face of the moon

You touch the blue dust
You've drawn on your hand
Blue lines. Solid? Fiction
It's a million-dot depiction
Like a Primavera made
From hourglass sand

Sun-starved little breaths!
Worry rots the soul
Of this sunset, this cerulean
Mid-moment air
The lights starts to die out
Mid-blazing
Mid-flare
Mid-thought I stop
My wonderings, I stare
At the sky, so large so I parse
Section by section
Breath taken, knees buckled
At such dusty perfection.

-I