The sun rises up a lonely lump
-one two three of them
The furthest place I see
Sol by grace.
:Whispered edges.
Unexplained proximity
Caught upon the ledges
:Do I see it there?
Caught upon the ledges?
The second cycle calls clearly
-flat and smeared and straight
--Its empty pledges promise,
“Someday you’ll be here.”
The third and closest tacit,
rife and riven, bare.
-It speaks of something different
--something not quite there
BUT HO
Are there
HO
Are they there…
Their features burst across my screen
-their boney piles edge,
Piled
Rimmed and there.
Call me, “Visit here”
.
.
.
So I sit a stone that looks like seat
And rest beneath its shade.
The air I breathe is cold
-That sun is rising?
Does it set?
Or is it simply there?
White and small.
Whispered,
White.
Sky above not Blue?
The sky is gray?
The sky is grey?
The sun,
My sol is blue.
I wonder…
Does this seat of stone
Protect me from ambition?
Does this final resting place
Forgive my cold ambition?
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