The Copper Spill

The windows catch the copper spill, drinking the last of the day's long reach before the shadows stretch their fingers into the crevices of the brick.

Tires hum a low, constant prayer against the cooling skin of asphalt, as the first neon pulse begins to stutter, a rhythmic heart waking in the glass.

Quietly, the sky bruises into violet, a soft ache between the silhouettes of antennas, where the starlings cluster like dark fruit waiting for the night to drop.