Softly the twilight is calling
a closing window to the sun,
with only a breath of silence…
wearing a scent of tonka.
As the sunlight surrenders
its golden fingers, going
slightly insane, slipping
naked into the night.
And the moon is an accomplice,
a shadow pulling blinds shut,
swallowing the whispers,
blotting out the voyeurs.
With a scent of tonka
clinging to the flesh,
heavy with almond and deep,
naked into the night.










