On the last shore’s breast, the dusk of the sky-sand’s veil
gleams, abated torment, evening windows. Days felt

dealt what, in the end, came to pass, the elapsed
of the sun’s hill. What remained? The highway-hurrier’s

greying stain, the heart of the toothed wheel, glass
that burns in the twilight thresh: no more will the sight,

which burdens the pained, envelop the sky-veil’s span
at the night-shore’s calling: on the shin’s cusp

a lancing feeling falls through the right-then, where flashed,
in a while, the cart’s when. Frightened, the bridge’s linen

was gone and forgotten. Return to the matte, o blue,
far on the roads you have fared already, boil us

the frolicking red of our tears, the “still”, the “perhaps”.

From Futurama, 2010.