I want to live in that interlude, 
after the goodnight conk -la -ree
of red-winged black birds
settling into the cattails,
before crickets’ chirp
after birth of the nascent polliwog,
before it sprouts legs to leap
from the amniotic pond
into the claws of a hawk
after the peach sun ripens to pink
on the western ledge,
before its bruised skin
spreads across the sky
after mid-day calm
before the evening breeze
quivers through silver poplars  
until leaves murmur like
gossips’ tongues in church.
I want to live in that interlude
after I sat down for supper,
before the phone’s shrill chirp,
before I put on this midnight dress,
before I placed burgundy roses
on your casket of poplar,
before the parlour filled with murmurs.
When I still inhaled indigo
and exhaled champagne-pink.
Indigo Night