An Observation at the Onset of Night

Russ Bellon


A shroud of twilight


falls, woven

from the delicate breath

of sleeping insects,

their lost empire grown

in exiled secrets,

in lightless depths

of nether space reserved

for things banished,

for uncontested heresies,

for truth

best written in dead tongues

on crumbling skins

stripped from living sages,

and for dreams.