Synesthesia

Shadow lines of night
close on the horizon,
slicing the last sounds of light
to strips so thin
they are ultrasonic,

like finely hammered
gold leaf
pressed
to the thickness of a single atom,
so thin they are transparent
to the inner ear
in the yellow lamps of dusk,

so thin you
can almost hear
their translucent shades,
taste their fragrance
on the tines of tomorrow.