|Apr/May 2010 Poetry|
"Busy old foole, unruly Sunne"
wrote the irritated lover, Donne
because it's true: the sun's too strong
for poetry, too much divides
object from object, as in the cut
of a wing's shadow on tarmac,
the scar of a telephone wire
on alfalfa. The sun brays
at everything like a donkey in heat.
Who wants its brass delineations,
its Cyclops beam lasering every pore?
The moon shines with a light
not its light, borrowed, recused
from a world of melting popsicles
into one grown plastic from pearling.
Moonlight falls in manna's perishable white.
To such patina the body moves
with a more forgiving step.
The sun differs in kind and kindness.