Shivering sunsets scream,
swallowed by the shallows
of silent sanguine streams.
I hear them at the stairs
while counting old brown coins
and a few crumpled fares
every morbid Monday,
watching the sky bleed red,
then bruise purple and gray.
We don’t wish to go home,
the setting sun and I.
Old wounds hide in dark domes

… but so do wet paint ones.