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From across the room your setting sun
surprises me with its mildness: Surely
I should be squinting at such a blaze.
It must be invisibly screened
by a radiant gauzy veil of clouds.
Nice trick, a painter painting the sun.
Do we photograph flashbulbs popping? (Smile,
Earth! Pop! goes the sun, our daily
de-light.) It's a veil dance, stripping away
layer after layer of pearly, then
golden, then roseate, then a flaming orange
ball, at its heart a white glower,
looming over an ash-dark purple-haunted
strip of earth. But are there
no more veils? My urge to squint
hints at who makes suns, makes me wonder,
is the sun the source of anything
at all? Or like a painting
or a naked dancer or the twinkle
in your eye, just one last veil?
October 6, 2002