the sun looks
weak in the sky,
muted to impotence
behind season and cloud.
but it is not.
the sun is always
the same, it’s strength
always cataclysmic.
eventually, so i am
told, it will
burn itself out.
what a relief.
the moon smirks
at the sun’s rage,
its might, its
earnest, dutiful,
belief. its exhaustion.
the moon is no bully.
it presents the sun with
unfailing reflection,
a place to put itself.
people down here,
blinded by worship,
even they still need
protection from
sun’s diligence.
i walk by a broken house
and protect myself from it
by keeping my breath held.
the house, it has
leaned too far on its side
and now it is all
must of exposure.
the road down below,
even though the house
leans back and to the side,
the road down below,
it has been closed
for weeks, waiting.
waiting for full-collapse.
some people seem to
enjoy looking
at this house,
broken,
wheezing.
but it fills me
with that which i am
already filled with;
despair and
a joyous melancholy.
this is not a joy
i can share readily with others,
it presents itself
with the must of exposure.
people hold their breath
when they are near me.
to the south and east
of this town, a jumble
of mountains, their white
tops bleeding into the pale
nothingness of backdropping sky.
the sun, powerful
in its weakness.
the mountains, patient
in their rise and fall.
the moon, reflective
in its slow retreat.
i hold my breath as i walk
towards it, and watch myself
fall open as i walk by.
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