"The French called this time of day “l’heure bleue.” To the English it was “the gloaming.” The very word “gloaming” reverberates, echoes—the gloaming, the glimmer, the glitter, the glisten, the glamour—carrying in its consonants the images of houses shuttering, gardens darkening, grass-lined rivers slipping through the shadows. During the blue nights you think the end of day will never come. As the blue nights draw to a close (and they will, and they do) you experience an actual chill, an apprehension of illness, at the moment you first notice: the blue light is going, the days are already shortening, the summer is gone."
"Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague
memory of you. I live with pain that is like a wound;
if you touch me, you will do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me;
because of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate
desires: shooting stars, falling objects."