My wife keeps saying
sunset, but as a verb.
Sunsetting this, sun-

setting that. By this
she means letting
something go slowly

away. But the sun is
still there, I say, after
it sets. Not there, she

tells me, pointing to
a space the sun could
be. We’re inside, but

I learn I can imagine
a sunset almost any-
where. Sunsets over

couches, under cars.
I tell her, someone
once told me that

pollution exaggerates
the color, makes them
more vibrant, which

implies sunsets were
a lot worse before we
made our big mess

of the planet. Boring
sunsets, seen only by
birds. I’m sunsetting

this conversation, she
says, and starts walking
slowly backwards out

of the room. Her own
little sunset, seen from
inside, into morning.