The birth of our sun wrote megalithic,
two-word bursts of observable heat to life.
It pounded the density of a billion
squealing animals and thought itself
star—a pencil
being lifted by an oven-mitted hand
somehow deft, fortune-telling
witch.
sun—which will, in time,
bow out to a goodnight city
where every light is eaten
by dark-spelled window—no reflection
of flame,
no kiss of magnet—no
just cold death to
the bones—a molded meatball
dancing in a spiral once believed
to be beautiful.