Here you will find the Poem Compact Dusk of poet Bill Knott
Here at the height of the day night change The color of the sky is uncertain, The sky depending in which direction One's eye strains, each of its swatches a strange Hue which dies too soon and which makes this hour Linger in the mind transient as a life, Whose names once known remain another Posied-up portrait on our palette knife. Until even I wonder if one tint Ever survives the harm of seeming unique (Evening's intrigue, time's singularity.) Study for its trace, its placemap, I see ? Redundant as a stopsign in italic? The face on which my profile leaves no print.