The summer dusk is there.
It challenges our mighty attempts to bleed it of meaning.
It rests
Amid the leaves and late sounds
And beneath the eave of evening.

We dash against it,
We run shrieking into the regions where it is.
We rush past the brittle ends of the decadent afternoon,
Violating places recently sanctified by sunlight.

But the dusk is there.
We stand panting, maddened,
Under the summer sky.


---Jim Bolner, Sr.
June 16, 1957