Imagine

a horizon painted by goose feather pastry brushes: 
patches of salmon, daubed strawberry, smudged damson.
Peach wash joins the seams beneath the black current dome.

I see a fume of Emily Dickinson--that thing with feathers-- and
though it’s said democracy dies in darkness, darkness and night are not the same.
Joy comes in the morning but also with the sun’s sleepy sighs.