Saying the Evening

Deep in dry inland
Prone to small quakes
And abrupt rockfall,

The only tide is
Eventide. Even
So, it rises, slow

In the watching mind
Of the alien
Born to faster days.

It’s unbearable.
Everyone’s talking.
The alien wants

To say something, too,
But not like that, not
About aliens

Being aliens,
Better, livelier,
Much quieter days.

The alien wants
To be alien,
To say the evening.