contemplation

To defy the sunlight with our eyes
when poetry overwhelms the senses
is a joyful self-inflicted pain.

For a moment we are able to see
the playful malignity of what’s above
even though our eyes are sore.

There is just this blank feeling
of a sultry foam white — a magnificent
soft sand touch of ancient times.

It’s not like a still late afternoon
when cars enlighten the land
caressing our sight —

The golden watch is sublime,
suntuous as an emperor
never to be fully seen or undressed.

We slowly burn on the inside for hours
waiting for the touch of the heavy hand in black.
The counterpart is a delight for the blind.

I’m always the bare chalice
eager for the pagan rain.
My soul is the sunset…