We did not know
it would leave us
here. Our sun sits
bored as a dog
at noon, gnawing
the rocks.

No stir, no. From
here, the earth might
as well be flat –
this eye its centre,
this stone heart its
own, all

horizons one drop
down and off. I
am not yet a
parvenu; ideas,
like books,
cannot

content me. There
is no fact much
further than the
reach of an arm –
desperate,
dislocated.

This old tongue is
dried to the bone.
I hate the sun,
that attrition of seen
things, which comes home
safe and sound.