you are the sun

this happens at true noon. it happens every day. then you blink, and you forget, and you go [al]on[g] your way. but if you could remember, this is some of what you’d say:

you see true. you see you’ve come through a time of all nows made new by the shines[h]earing edge of your eyes, [. . .]


it is true. the sun is a chariot chasing a_fire. the sun is a ship in cloud-seas, climbing higher. the sun is an all-seeing eye. the sun is a ball beetle-rolled across sky. the sun is nucleicombustion. the sun is the surest sign we put our trust in.

but the sun is also a dance: [. . .]


in medias res we had our inception. in a radius, meshed, came each new conception.

the middle of things is in, as seen when what once surrounded is swallowed—and as much, when the flavor of a flower’smoke is followed. in a desert captured to measure time, neither hungry nor heavy with sleep, a building’s lung [. . .]

mantra for [im]mediation

save that, trade that, keep that second-sided. waive that, shade that, let your hands be guided. nothing of importance can be pre-decided. the moment of the reckoning is reticent in advance—but once inside, the slightest slide supplies sufficient chance to change your mind and rearrange the firmament you find, for the foundations of the sky [. . .]

a sky of clouds

one sky is a measure, grown smaller by the city and the sitting in a stillnessurrounded by motions of metal among masses married to the illness they are marred by, one they’ve carried into higher and higherises—but clouds are not brought closer on by climbing stairs in squares. the horizon they’d encounter, their enframingrid disguises.

[. . .]

the middle of things

stop. stop like the sun at its height a world across, where flowers welcome wind and not a single lumen’s lost. stop like the sun at its depth herecent-passed, where all the leaves have left us and the snow’s drifts are amassed. stop like the centerpoint between those two extremes, the Temple in the Core—you’ve [. . .]