- written on this day of the partial solar eclipse, when I am down with the flu -
a cold,
a splitting headache,
and the blinding sun
burning up with a fever of its own
rushed between late risings and early twilights
drilling into my skull as if to make up for lost time
as if to bleach my memory of yesterday’s darkness
and the darkness of the day before
parching the leaves and the papers, erasing
the signs written on them
all those signs of absence – now blotted out by its remorseless glow
incensed, unbearable, looming
turning – once more – the musty, reedy marshes to strangling dry soot
excreting its cum of cruel desire –
hot, flaming embers of hope
as it empties its golden glare onto the world,
as it dumps its haughty heat on your skin,
as it pounds the barren boughs with ochre statements of crackling neglect.
Writer Between Worlds 