She packs at dusk, stomps out,

loads her stuff, drives off.


A fuchsia ending lies ahead,

signals something beyond 


slow down, ease off, take

several deep breaths. More like


cliff, guillotine, shriek, splat,

death. No wonder stop signs


bleed. Stoplights too. Love goes,

campfire coals cease to glow,


become embered clots,

give off a scarlet warning -- 


no more heat shall flow.

Sun, fearful, flushed in the west,


finally abandons yellow,

fades at the sight of red.


                            Timothy Pilgrim