The hound at dawn is the color of mist
Rising from a warm grave, whose eyes
Have seen a dying monarch kissed
By blackened lips, howling at fading stars.

The cur at noon is the color of sand
Kicked up by an indrawn breath when
The sky first heard the sea’s command
To yield the silvery moon.

The pup at sundown is the color of ash
Spread on the palms of children by an
Angel whose wings were slashed
By scythes sharpened on bones.

But the hound at midnight is the color of you.
The memory of that which one cannot undo.

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