When the Sun Fell to Earth


The sun’s holy aroma
fell to earth, warbling
in its middle,
extending outward to spin
and be spun, hot fire
focused on her single-chambered heart,
dizzy, and happy, and loud.

Pleasure wafts through spun
metal, some central
piece of truth
that cannot be held
but only beheld. Bold there,
and some brash fire
tunnels into furrowed dark,
borrows memory
and sustenance in fused
transmutation, a rise of hope
circled, squared,
immutable. She will not wait —

horse-bucked, thriving,
full of an unsecret desire,
eyes, mouth focused
to leap the pulpit with a cry
and a shout all her own,
all her very own, a song
that will never be stopped
or caught.

About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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