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