slowly, it grows darker.
not to be told through visible
proofs, but instead to notice the drowning
pitter-patter fading away
of a basketball's final release.
it's a slow, raspy beat.
it's the blaring silence
that follows the last child
through the neighborhood's hungry doors,
the final footsteps
running like whispers to kitchen tables.
it's the quiet enjoyment of nightfall.
it's seen as well, right at
in the eyes of old brick buildings,
slowly awakening one at a time;
the flicker of lights in living rooms;
and then, one at a time, the sudden darkness that's left.
the eyes finally close, leaving nothing.