Indigo: the inks of evening; how they deepen and prepare 
for hours of steeping. Dipped in it, unrinsed until morning, 
our bodies caught in the nets of lesser lamps. We wanted 
to be chameleons, slipping into skins of variegated cut 
and color. We thought we could escape that ocean 
whose name, otherwise, is origin. Before the world 
left us, it unfurled a scroll of foam; a roiling sea 
whose crests throbbed above ruined xysts.
In the distance where
the horizon line should be,
a copper-colored hinge.

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