Here at the height of the day night change The color of the sky is uncertain, The sky depending in which direction One's eye strains, each of its swatches a strange Hue which dies too soon and which makes this hour Linger in the mind transient as a life, Whose names once known remain another Posied-up portrait on our palette knife. Until even I wonder if one tint Ever survives the harm of seeming unique (Evening's intrigue, time's singularity.) Study for its trace, its placemap, I see ? Redundant as a stopsign in italic? The face on which my profile leaves no print.