Sunset Two Ways

A reader, a critic, said
“Your poetry is not
poetic enough. Not
enough layers and what
layers there are
are too damn thin.”

What point obfuscation,
What point incomprehensible simile,
What point hairy metaphor,
What point the flowery
Language of
Yore?

Isn’t the story enough,
Aren’t the realities
Full of adequate
Realism?
Wonders described
Fairly well
Don’t need to make
One wonder.

I took the criticism
To heart and looked
At the sunset…

And I saw blood on stones
I saw a melting
Into orchids of shadow
I saw a christening
Of stars flying slowly free
And I saw changes
Unwanted but
Unavoidable.

There was more…

Clouds like silver ships
Breezes like the breath of cowards
Eyes fading and shrouded
With sensual doubt
More blood
Fewer stones
Cascading shards of concrete
Clear glass and computers.

But then…

I grew tired
I longed for a mountain
The sun slipping softly down behind
Leaving a bruised sky
Showing gentle purples
Powdery blues
Elusive greens
Then finally, darkness.

There are two ways to sunset.