Sundowning

The sun is slipping west
stripping reason
from the mind
of an old man.

It’s a cruel tenderness
this layered pink sky
that beckons lovers
to the the beach
while stirring madness
in a small, pale room
just off a busy street.

The incessant surrender
is too much to ask
each day letting go
to the full, brilliant force 
of the sun pulling down.

He will not be the first
or the last one lost.

A weary brain has no muscle for this.

So maybe the next time 
I point my camera to the sky
as if to own
her blazing and expanse
I’ll risk something new for us both—
my own stillness and joy
alive in the death.

Each thing true
each agony and celebration
allowed to be
both rising and forgotten
in the exhale of a day.