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The potato plants are dying and it
Has just rained and the sunset
Is paling out beyond the hawthorns.
The dry joists of old growth are
A yellow that lumines of itself where
They cluster brightly in the cool and
Falling air like shabby fireworks.
Structures grand in death, they
Gain a deep light as the evening
Lets go itself, ending almost white
As if their former tubers had shed
And abandoned elaborate wings.
They resign their intricacies now,
Become jaune blurs against darkness
Like gouts of soft smoke broken
And drifting after a downpour. They
Dissolve and refigure, and with them
All shade and contour and motion.