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To the Sun of Men's Fire

We enter, become your power
through its every form of tenderness.
So may the touch, not the blast,
reign as a reminder of our light
stroking everything that is,
including all things we must call dark.

I see you do not deny
the dark at the center of your heart.
It is harder for human
hearts to contain and center their own.
But every time two souls splash
in love to ripple it through all hearts,

through the air and back to you,
into the rain and the fields of grain
and even into the blood
that darkens the grass as boots and wheels
blindly crush throught its daisies;
every time we stop to feel the source

of love in your eye and touch,
the dark at our core shrivels and melts
to know anew the meaning
of the pain and the tears that it sprouts,
and our eyes turn back to yours
for its shadow the home of mercy.

To the Sun Who Must Witness War

Lend some fire to these fingers
that they might groove, into the rock
of memory, your timeless tongue
through a figure of our frailty.

Show me how to be, to translate
your silence into utterance
of humility in the face
of your light sculpting our hearts dark

with the clotted blood of our lust
for blood and the breath that sparks it
into neverending circuits
of sensation riddled with fear,

fears of spirit frightening itself
with more edges of extinction,
the latest tyrannies of faith
and the avid acids of hate.

Is hell then but a human art
and humanity but a rough
translation of your light into
the blinding flares of dense desire?

How blind must we become before
we need to redream your silence
as food, bridge and glue of all hearts
still confusing slaughter with light?