singing down the sun

it is hardest to write

a poem for your


self; instead of sending it

out, off into the universe,


this one drills down,

directly in:


straight through

the sin and lore


and shimmer

of deflection


to the very



how can we be capable of

such great heights and


such despicable



we keep making plans,

making plans,


pretending we will never

fall across the threshold.


if you wait long enough

in a still, small room;


if you can out-pace

the race of your fear;


you can hear

its call:


spirit narrating

from beyond,



all —


telling you to look

to the sparrow, to the


love-numbered hairs

on its regal head,


ward of boundless wonder

flying without worry


just above our

milling austerity;


singing down

the sun.





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