There is nothing so dark
as too much light,
to be blinded by radiance,
by the sun rising inside one’s self.
A cold, dazzling orb
like a midge becoming thought,
and so I have seen the sun
rising in me.
And for what purpose I don’t know,
but it is for me to see that sun,
and tell it to go away,
like commanding a shadow,
for which there is no body,
just a mystic diary,
a portion of being,
for which breakfast and the city
has no place.
I go to my work,
and over a donut see the sun inside me,
ancient as the East,
a sea with mermaids and reedy sails,
and jars of jungle spice,
and languages whose words
are cinnamon and cloves.
But it could be even more ancient,
when people slept in beds of unignited dust,
and waited like the faces of Easter Island,
looking out to sea,
waiting for existence,
and I was there
with that sun inside me,
younger and blonder,
and eyes as black as raven feathers.
It slept inside,
near as my nose,
far as the edge of darkness.
Now it just lingers,
almost at my command.
I can see dawn
opening with bronze arms,
greeting me,
telling me where the light is,
daring it to rise,
and see through the scallops
of infinite dimensions and lives,
where no one is forgotten,
that diaries are kept
of summers,
that never go away.