Karen Dowell



"C'est l'heure mauve,"
she says, sipping soda
flavored with grenadine
that tints her pomegranate lips.
She watches the sun sink
into a violet sea, and
presses coral cheeks against
cool butter-yellow plaster
turning mustard in twilight.
The sky's nectarine complexion
blushes as she bites
into the last plum.

"C'est l'heure mauve."
She picks up her wine chaise
and retreats inside
to rooms blue.


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