In winter in the city of New York I harbor
a secret pity for the sun, its muscles not strong
enough to push through cloud cover, cascade
over the Great Lawn and stretch out its fingers
along the grand avenues on this island.
In the borough of Brooklyn the endless
gray days break with my attempts to make
you laugh. Me, dancing like a cat with a sock
on its head, a sort-of apology for what you
found earlier, looking through my phone
for things you wished you’d known sooner.
In the neighborhood of Sunset Park I am afraid
of what has happened to the sun. Maybe we don’t
even deserve the sun. Maybe once we did,
but not anymore after all we’ve done.
I begin recalling my sun-kissed past, when our bodies
aligned like an eclipse as I passed over you,
savoring every errant beam until we spiraled out
of orbit risking the lives of all the land-based.
In my apartment alone for three days straight:
Bulleit rye and the Motley Crue biography.
I will believe in love again when I see it.
When it shows its face, curls up
at my feet and looks at me with those
solar eyes, that savage pull.