to Saint John
Sun
Active sun, far too active.
When you discharge your rage,
the weight of a thousand thunderstorms
descends upon my soul at once
but no relief.
My self is not spotless either
but flares up, burns up,
layer after layer,
until the real fuel is exposed.
Is this the truth about myself?
My celestial timekeeper!
When you have counted my days to the End
will there be a radiant supernova,
a moment of enlightenment
before I disappear
from the Wheel of my horoscope?
Full Moon
I can't sleep. The night is not safe.
There is too much light on the wrong side.
The dreaded North is revealed.
In your moving tides
the eternal ice of permafrost is rising,
the snowflakes of my ancestors now unburied.
The hidden face of my ego
is always unripe like the North side of an apple.
There is something false
about my tears reflecting this unreal light,
this indoors fountain
endlessly recycling the same waters.
What advice?
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