SUN POEM
Sheltered by concrete
Sufficient against nuclear attack.
The sun is a wet rag, breathable.
Dishcloths, dishcloths.
Paperwork arrayed in legions.
Asbestos heat.
A siren howls against the air conditioning.
Midnight is a countdown for morning.
It is a myth, George tells us -
The sun has nothing to do
With the mounting oceans,
The cracking ice,
The mountains sweeping away villages.
It is all in the mind.
I seem to remember
A bright beach white with the silica sands
Singing the sun into brightness
As my naked feet
Tranced across the surface
In a foreverness of blank heat and ocean.
But perhaps that, too,
Is and was and will be
All in the mind.
The sun song a brief lapse of sanity.
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