Bare-breasted this afternoon facing the Sun
   northward

   there could be more places for heat like this in homes
so shattered, their faces of malaise – a hundred days of gambol
     boys in their sanguine shirts; the myth of sun
                     is truth of soul, or moon

            clear vantage of something – neighbors leaving
radios wheezing in tetchy static,
  dogs panting in dry ***, lawn the verdigris,
                   the marauder in the market, all moving towards

even sounds shorn out of the daily are pure:
           the prattling neighbor again back in the foyer,
  the revolution of an old van and the dismay
                                   of a septuagenarian, the harangue
  of a mother, or somewhere, the marching of
                 soldiers shot dead – sun’s always painting pristine
  the milieu, so we can see now past the papers,
       the truthfulness of atrocities;

there came by you,
        in your full brightness, blotches of sun – untouched
by the heat, you’re passing and passing – in transit, nothing is snatched
    as the neighbors beat through.