An Æsthetics of the Dying Sun

The strength of our shadow permits
passage below life’s driest flesh;
love leads us on its labyrinth
path down past bruises—conduits
whose blue-faced performance of myth
paints our mortal consciousness with
memories of our first abyss—
reminding us we were giants.

It is this longing, this storm cloud
christening our blindness with mist,
spilling into pockets four round
stones with which weight we are to hit
his fading face: the truant sun
climaxing onto lovers his
dripping dusk, as if fisting out
oblivion fingers from dust

messages long buried; as if
burying fire suffocates it.
Deserts are burned, not born; transit
under sand, flames where veins traffic
passion, each footstep a brand licked
onto nude toes, soft hands opened
to devour this passion poets
plant in desolate ground, broken.

Dig in the dirt a hole and shout
down into its depth our secret,
and see how seeds grow up and out
of it, shedding all concealment—
since buried rumours bleed, bloom loud,
and colour horizons; a pit
imprisons a stone at its foot,
unfathomably persistent,

and put far below consciousness
so shallow gravediggers can lift
soft spirits deprived of wealth, since
the first of these engraved stones says
there are three more, yet uncovered—
that no one has time, only presence
to allot what one values; that
we own nothing, all’s been borrowed;

further, man cannot taste or touch
tomorrow and that this moment
is the only whose hour matters;
laid most deeply beneath the mouth
of our mortal grave is a rock
tongues carved long before all of thought
and reason poisoned high heaven
with such low priorities. Love

has a personal and public
trace in its pathology that
one can detect but one cannot
direct; its course has been threaded
to attract us, but not to let
mortals sew their hearts a garment
from its substance—an æsthetics
a dying sun will let clothe it.