The
geometry
of dawn and dusk
is that of unbroken
planes, excepting the
loose wisps of radiance that
glimmer above the glaciated bedrock
of our antipodal latitudes.
These latitudes are
sacred to
the light.
Its
fragile
footprints
are couched
in the permafrost.
Its scent somehow
lingers, as if it were
nestled in a pillow.
One would think
that the light had
just been there
moments
before,
or
was
just
now
cresting
over the horizon.
In these realms of phantoms,
even the streaming auroras cast shadows.
These scant specks, in flux between the great
planes of dawn and dusk, undertone an elegant truth.
Light is disintegration.
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