When I think of how we’re going to die, I imagine
the sun, low and pale, a spent coal on the horizon.
The sun is wretched.
The wet ground
There is a bright hole in the sky
and where once hung a bright star hangs now only bright absence.
We weep fire in elegy, weep light like sweat.
We walk down through an empty dusk into the valley of Lament—
if only you
up this nighttime
blue sun, this
wretched blue sun
a song without
morning, a song
These ancient stars have burned for so long
that even the sky is seared with their afterimage.
The sun is a white naked stalk.
If you stare directly at the sun, you’ll gain new powers of sight.
If you think too hard about the sun, you’ll go blind—
dust and heat
it swirls hot
and what remains
is new light, new
visions of gray
green dawns and