Sun growl does not discriminate
in the early morning hours of this solstice.
He bathes all—climbs into the mouths
of those that would shear—those that might
simply watch a grosbeak hop in a thin trickle
of mud that wends to his arena of redwood.
Sun waves every direction in this
catacomb of towering red bark—enfolds
flesh—scorched eyes—thistle-bare mind-eyes.
Sun meets the hollow flatness of Jupiter
and Mercury. Attends the truth of their rose
strewn meadows—from this cathedral.
how bleats are an emptiness
beside the sharpness of wind-instruments.