Psyche Sound-Bathes on the Summer Solstice

By Kari A. Flickinger

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.

Sun shows

how bleats are an emptiness
when placed
beside the sharpness of wind-instruments.

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