the slanting in

the scarf she sent me
draped over the back of my chair
dull, burnt orange
the color the swamis wear

this moment, chosen
for its veracity and razor clarity
pops like Escher's 4-D fish

and here with me
the new books and used CD's
that claw at the dust of the day
the caked on mud

my eyes decline a statement
smile, instead, at the slanting in
of the last of daylight