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A poem by Marc Cioffi 

The day has settled blue between the birds
and trees, and twilight arrives as a waiter:
expectant, with an air of ready indifference.
This twilight knows nothing of the night;

the waiter in blue cannot feel the weight of red
in the burning ember of the dying day.
His apron of blue begins to fray, and wilts
to purple shade as darkness drops in static grain.

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