How can I be the closest to your home, and still unknown,
How can I be the closest to the Sun, closest to the scorch,
and still have the most icy landlords in my poles,
and why can I and twilight be seen by you alone?
How come from my surface, light does not work--light does not hurt, I do not blink as I think, even as the sunset pours lava forth, and that sunset is that lie of time, as you disappear in darkness, I almost disappear in light, then the stars scream across the sky, in a geminid shower rewind, in my unblinking muse, in the solar hues, the great inferno retreats, and the slower speed of Earth I view, And I see the astrologer, with his useless scope, trying to track my path, futile as the priests trying to invent gold.
They cannot understand my core, with machines that are perfect because I am perfectly mercurial on the surface,
with the intense cold of my poles, and the intense burning solar gold of my repose, I view blinding light, then infinite starry night, and cold dark logic they are encased in--my deep dark basins--and the rolling triumph of my surface's relief is from breathless sandy ovation beneath.
But now is my silver region where I compose, between extremes, no ovation no gold, only metallic mercury upon the barren from faint starlight strobes. Here is where my dark volumes are known, but like shifting shadows--from light are closed. Then a clock strikes the hour, when my surface is reinvested with power, the oncoming of a sunset getting louder and louder, and in my face a cold severe place, and on my stare intense solar glare.
My theater is caused by applause, my temple is lit with pale light of long dead stars, and I crash and die young forever like my short lived geminid sparks, In your twilight is my house, and with my intense and icy blood, I protect the memory and mystery of love.
