If the sun rose without you,
thin-lipped and petty,
a day would slump over me,
either frigid or thick-steamed.
And no cool wind will pass the trees,
And the sun, a mere mock of warmth,
will tumble west that is sure,
certain as rock in a dry creek bed.
For what is a light without hands
to hold it? And what is a day without
a warm return to a hazelled iris,
chiselled long and arced as horizon?