The Philosopher Savant Contemplates the Dangerous Sun
       

The tinsel under which I showered this morning
kissed my cold closed eyes and made me shine
sadly. The soap that fragranced my thoughts
and hair rode on my skin
in the car on the street of the miniature city
through which I clattered humbly
to my cross and grave and otherwise euphonic
emblem of a job.
Later, at the Army Post Tap, my friend had a great tribal song
he yelped like a coyote in shadow
purpled into the corners of abandoned
playgrounds, schools, rubble.
The dangerous sun burned itself to sleep.
And that was the only thing that kept me going.
And that is the only thing I love.

Tweet

Copyright © 2016 Rustin Larson All rights reserved
from The Philosopher Savant
Glass Lyre Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission