The sun is an old tire.
The sun is a grand piano.
The sun is a borrowed mother,
a sutured wind, a still spiral air.
When you were born, I held you and said:
“I am so happy to see you again.”
The surprise of a wet leg in the palm of my hand.
The heat of a paper map near the saline sea
melding thought to arm and lung to now.
The sun is an old woman wearing only pants.
The finer powder of living will leak through
and she will be alone and terrible and perfect.
The strewn feathers in the sand lay
in a pattern looking exactly like that of a bird.
You look exactly like that of a prayer.
A tidal gasp to your ills. Over and over.
It takes over in the summer of our shelter.
It takes over in the lace of our winter.
An ancient alphabet in ruin on your forehead.
The stake of your placenta before me now.
The soft part of your foot in harbor.
You lick the shiny ray, the careless
orb through which loss is lost.
The sun is new moss on the pillow case.
The sun is the sweat on a mirrorless now.
I miss the smell of bodies close.
Crisp monsters grab the bobbing eyes.
They look up to wipe the gleam from the gleam.
A new century disappears nearby.
They bare the in-between anyway.
The way a star never looks back.
The poet who could not cry.
The one who could.
Your bones are a hole in the sun.