To the Sun

by Andrew Brown

We love you like idiots, your teetering meshed

vanilla breath and conflagration, and are suffused

by desire, every straining bit of flesh

aligned with your motley fading visions. If just

once you didn’t disappear, we’d transform our lust

for proximity into belonging, go fresh

into unlit territory. If every

advance wasn’t retreat, enclave of ancient bent light,

we wouldn’t regard your loss so anxiously.

Instead, our lips still slip awkwardly, tense up too

suddenly. Indicate, spent day, what to do with our few

remaining moments. Share your sensibility

about drifting in time. It’s not too late.

Guru of the vast horizon! Pontificate!

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Filed under Issue 7, Poetry

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