Eyes of the Sun

The eyes of the sun are boring my gut
and the alcoholic dream has ended.


What do you say or do when they come
to take everything away and you let them?


the mountains curve upward like a cactus
chalk skin bent away from stony sticks that
stab the gray air


All the words, the words working, writhing, singing
off the page, paid, and rent in two;
stanzas i could not decipher, melodies too pale for the page


I'm not thinking of you.

I could say this 10,000 times and it would not become true.