There’s a leveling out, a sinking

below, almost below, the horizon

things flattening into landscape mode

and we too begin to recline, easing

backs into porch chairs, lowering a leg

across the railing contemplating

when to unhinge elbow and knee

unfold laps to settle onto mat or mattress

once full darkness arrives

stretch frames on wood or foam

and let ourselves be enveloped

by that liquid blackness beginning

to seep from between arms of oaks

slide from beneath the pines

rise up from clods in the field

but for now only evening fits itself

between the hay bales in the barn

filters its half light onto the backs

of milling horses, the goats nibbling

last leaves by the post, the moment

a respite between the heaped comforter

at the foot of the bed and the rocker

the submission and the anticipation

the evening and the dark tide.