With the sun in your face, you’re a flower,
photosynthesizing, feeding off fire,
triple-blown glass with gall to hurl the world
hurtling t’ward that which endowed your power,
just to see which one will flame out first.
All of a sudden, you’re sub-single-blown,
practically plastic, ready to crack from
the darkness’s density, threatening
to turn your brass balls to brittle berries.
Shrunken and shriveled, you shiver, sexless,
imploring the morning sun to sing—though
you sunk it—hoping to numb your hunger
for love, or, or warmth to dry the droplets
from the wells dug deep by the night-watchman’s
spade, but you made your bed, kid. Cry in it.