The World-Making Sun

The day has gone by, my year has gone by, and still I am no longer because of it. I am in it, as ever, and always, and never, and who would have thought to turn out the light at the end of the day? The cycles of revolution and rotation make their own logic of my walls, and I am unasked for an opinion or consent. That is fine. We should stay with this bending light, anyway, and see where it leads - to back again, or to different skeins of moving light upon the shoulder’s map of moving through the room, my room, your space, my place, all time and intermission. This is all my target with the bow, and after no one sleeps I may bestow a record-time upon the thunderclap of ticking’s tock and under my last line, I sleep forever on the clasp of weather here. It is nice here. My skin feels cooled by all the air, rushed out to no one mentioning it now, or then, or any past at all. This is the new dimension of the minute when we speak, where we grow, up to all the footprints in the every snow upon the mountain of the world-making sun.