That Same Sun
The sun that rises every day says I
don’t care to the torments of love.
Jim Harrison wrote that shortly before
he died. I find it hard to believe him.
I have talked to that same sun, watched
its comings and goings for three quarters
of a century. Is there not still torment in
watching one another die? And what
is that if not love? Has that same sun
not wrinkled us to husks and driven us
indoors to click through pictures of
the dead just to feel it in our guts,
to light up the old neural paths,
the palimpsests of our pain?