In Relation to the Sun


He moves not,
unless you count
the spinning of this great ball
on its axis,

its hurtling
through space, never
occupying the same space,
movement being

the maker
of time.

He moves not,
in relation
to the son, always shunted
under his arm

or huddled
beneath his coat
and kept warm. The son, stealing
all the covers

all the night,

through the blinds
in the morning,
who can’t keep his head bent down
though he’s been told

and been told.
Son, who can be
held liable for none of it,

on a roof,



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

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