What He Can Do


The sun, whose arms reach down,
three quarters down the length
of his body, but who
cannot move grains of sand,

not one inch, who cannot
get a man walking down
a dark path to turn back,
whose birth cannot save us.

Our sun, with no power
but to stretch his long ray-
like arms, make vapor dance,
build great turrets of clouds

only to be torn down
by the airs and the land,
whose distance makes him great,
admired and crippled.

Sun who tries, whom we fight,
who hears the father-curse
and mother-cry, so who
balls himself up at night.



A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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