poems

 

 

The Crumbling Sun

It is everywhere now, in slivers,
in shards, in chips and coils; chunks
of it roll down the hills, and into
streams it falls with a hiss of a thousand
snakes. I find it in my hair, under
my fingernails, on my belly, between
my legs. It slides under my pillow
and like oil surfaces on the top of
milk and water. I breath in its
flowers and feel the roots of it in
my lungs, burning out the blood
and oxygen. Soon I shall be the sun
itself, and about me shall grow new
worlds, myself the crumbling sun, setting
right the galaxies. I am imperator
and fixed abomination.