Victor Kerlow Dear Diary:
Night dies swiftly in the clear autumn dawn. I watch the sun ignite cold and lipstick red
over the buildings in the east; while night hides low near the pavement just outside the
burnt-orange glow of the lampposts.
Later, when I leave the apartment for work, morning has captured the street and night’s
last refuge lies in the ground shadow of a low-hanging tree.
It dies before I reach my bus.
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