Spooning, our dog and cat doze in the sun.
Tails twitch and amber eyes close in the sun.
Each dawn, the illusion of another
chance. Every evening Nut swallows the sun.
Poetry blooms in the moon’s milky beams.
Drama in bedroom or bar light. Prose, the sun.
The sickle moon readies herself to rise.
Staining our faces pink, there goes the sun.
We’re green, green sugar machines, kids dressed as
plants sing. Two fat squirrels pose in the sun.
Demoted from god to science project.
Stippling the leaves, warming our toes, the sun
keeps its bright eye open, rises and sets
expectedly, despite our woes – the son
a runaway, the daughter lost to dream.
Would you choose gifts the dark bestows? The sun?
Curved blade of a back alley moon. Shadows
fight, then mate. A caged rooster crows. The sun
lifts over the smog-thick city. Homeless
men sift through garbage. Brisk wind blows the sun-
streaked leaves. An old woman paints the park – stone
fountain, oak trees, bees in the primrose, sun.