People sitting on the steps to the river;
spectators come out to witness the sun decant the night.
The lights spark to
on the Brooklyn Bridge.
Offices, on all day, formulate
as the sun fades down.
It's something their cameras can't see,
chomp, snap and flash as they might,
how, as the day slips gracefully
out the back door,
everything glows.
It gets away,
the pallor drains.
There is a light
nothing can hold onto.
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