They say never stare directly into the sun;
It will burn your eyes and you'll go blind.
But sometimes when I stare into the sun,
it ***** the sickness out of my mind —
and I have been nauseous lately.

The worst part is that I don't know why.
It could be the food or drink,
or the lack of food or drink.
It's bad, but,
not enough to complain,
just lingering,
annoying,
though it makes my throat close up sometimes.

Maybe I'm allergic.

Regardless, that's not what I'm writing about.
I'm writing about the way the clouds hang in the sky at sunset.
How their underbellies darken and grow more dimensional as the sunshine dissipates.

As if everything has come into focus.

So effortless, yet so heavy,
like a woman's breast hung over an anxious mouth.
A vague feeling of before...trying to remember how and when,
but the feeling is not as colorful as when.

Something like how silent the city feels.
As if we're all alone looking at the sky.
It's quieter than 3am or any other hour.

It's calm.

Before  I was anxious,
but the anxiety has melted away.
This day relieved of atrocious puns^

To make room for poetry,
one hundred feet off the ground,
in pink light,
on two feet,
with chest open,
absorbing everything,
in spite of everything.

I turn back periodically to see how quickly
the blue and the purple and the lavender are becoming more vivid,
as the sun dips behind the valley and just glows there.

It's almost all gone.
Evaporating more quickly than spilled ink on paper.