The sun, whom some
have come to admire,
whom some credit
for whatever light come
into their vacant lives,
and to whom too many
worship and offer praise,
credit for all the trees
with their thin turning leaves,
and for whatever lonely stalks
blossom and lovely stems bloom.
But the sun, whom, in truth,
was an experiment
gone wrong, an accident,
confluence of concept
and biological process,
where at the core
the elements of our bodies,
these slaveships, combine,
with great energy the offshot
fusion of our lives,
each pre-cancerous strand.
The waste filters its way
down to us, to this cowardice
and jaundice, bent yellow river
of our madness. Its Saturday,
we see the eons grow,
threaten to consume us,
watch the little black spots
on the sun turn,
the stretching magnetic arms tug
on us, trying to consume us.
Only running
in a straight line from this
can save us. This lasso,
this job, these ten minutes
before bed when the sun has set,
and we, too exhausted
to imagine,
two who have seen the sun,
and its many lives
only in passing,
only as a brief wish.
