portion of the artwork for Richard Weaver's poetry

Twilight sleep
Richard Weaver

Each blush of its throat
            is an open vein of darkness.
An invisible silkiness
            not yet aware of its own death.
In the red-against-green blur
            that diminishes
there is illuminated the perfect likeness
            a limning of hummingbird.

Blond hands describe the singular
            flight into this heart
the moon lends
            its hapless pulse
to the already thickening shadows.
            Even now the night-air
and the red earth       glisten.


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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 54 | Fall/Winter 2019