There’s pleasure in pain and pain in joy–
a circle, circumference so sharp
it’s burning gold. Up close it’s made
of filaments fraying bright
in fine threads of orange red light.
Jagged, and so more infinite.
Joy is a circle with corners
to be filled by searching for its center,
following one thin thread on tip toe
like a tightrope walker traversing
a wire-made plane to find the place at which
the fabric’s gathered in holy fingers,
where there must be thin creases
that must prove the fabric’s pinched
and held, the circle’s a made plane, laid
out and pleated into shape, flat
only ’cause of its composite thinness.
But joy’s filament’s infinite compared
to your small feet, and the point retreats
so far and deep inside it seems
the circle’s wrinkleless. The sun was
not born but woven.
Joy is vast and measured
in units of losing yourself in
search of what is lost, some where
between the flamey fraying edges
and the center deep and sounding
songs dark as bells, like fate eroding.
I have read and eaten and want more
My body is tall and strong and full and
I know I know nothing because the things that I feel like I understand today feel like more than what’s left understood
I have walked down streets and stood where crosswalks aren’t to take photographs of skies I’ll save but never show
I’ve often waked in the morning and lay breathless staring at the way the roofs of houses across the street are sparkling
I’ve loved and kept loving even after I knew I knew not how
because I knew I should
I have felt the sun on me pink and warm and it is gloriously good–
but why do I get to have horizons come to me naked on sunny days?
Who am I to leap around when just before dusk it’s pink and blue, and
why does it always feel so warm?
Why do I smile when it’s seventy in February and winter’s stolen spring and the air is so beautiful it’s got to mean the end of everything?
Am I happy because I know I’ll die before the world does?
How is it I feel whole and sculptly filled when around me there are people walking homeless, being killed, sitting still and watching their skeletons retreat into days like dawn?
Why should I be made for this when
with every passing day what’s human-made is nothing at all?
Sunsets slip so quietly into days behind the clouds.
Time’s opening and closing gradients must be the most ancient way of describing difference in detail. We’ve, since the first one probably, pursued with all our might such subtitles and speed in changing calm and color. We’ve searched the sky for secrets to mixing paint the way light mixes day, without losing little bruises in the universe’s fabric as we take it with our hands and grasp it the way the sun folds the sky as it moves down like a finger pressing down into a garment–
the moment mystical.
Sunset as metaphor for preservation.
Sunset as forest fire
The sun sets above a pool in a park left empty for more months than full–
I call this series seconds of a sunset
I call it glass stained
I call it stretching
I can call it that for so long before it’s soft
I call it gold
Sunset the last moment before the kid goes on stage in his living room talent show for the whole world to see, where he is as extraordinary to himself as he will ever be
Stretch your hand toward
my face naked and uplifted.
Cup my chin and tilt it up.
Close my eyes, and let my gaze fill
with seasonless dusk to slow gold
like my father in lawn chairs on sunny days
eyes shutting as he leaves rooms
pulling screens closed to cross one
threshold for another and lay there
from the waist up naked, unobligated
anymore to shame, mottled skin set
free on a body bent just enough
to turn his face up and leave it