• Vol. 07
  • Chapter 11
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Solar Fugue

Some galaxies are in turmoil. Veils of dust
keep their hearts from our view.

If you want to meet your ancestors,
just look in the mirror and wait.

Weathering involves no movement,
only aeons, the long game of hoping time

will lick you into shape. That’s what gave my eyes
their cobalt glaze, the cave its sculpted,

loved-by-Iris finish. If you keep what hurt you
in a jar, sous vide, the fantasy of kicking out

its teeth can be the carrot to get through.
All things can be turned to milk or honey.

Sequelae? Remind me mañana.
A black hole is stirring up trouble.

Planets, only mirrors,
shine as bright as bodies

magnitudes away. Light is just light.
That’s why no one likes to read

Paradiso, no shade in the hell of always wanting
to be right, or why those who study stars

or wind erosion worry too. Only God
takes comfort in scale, in knowing

the hole in your throat will never burn
like a quiet day on the sun.