I think, therefore iambic pentameter

"Let us go then, you and I..."
--T.S. Eliot, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

The patient and ethereal evening spreads
itself upon the horizon's chilly table,
inhales the cloud, and prepares for oblivion.

Clad in surgical blue, the sky reaches out
for the instrumental stars and the moon's bright blade.

Later, morning will slowly emerge from the fog,
stumble to the mirror, and find herself
to be (as usual) somewhat rearranged.