SONGOING

for Macgregor


the sun. the sun. the sun.
the sun the sun the sun.

I wake in the crush / of days, the way

everything holds

together merely by the stewardship

of tiny, voiceless orbits. Or

perhaps there is too much voice?

the sun. the sun. the sun.
the sun the sun the sun.
thesunthesunthesun.

An unsung land is a dead land

Can I call it a rain / of breathing arrows?
Does the air fear / space? Here is a representation

of you—any / you.

The sun folds into it like a melody / in the ear.

Who will sing the sun? My friends will sing the sun.
Who will sing the sun? My friends will sing the sun.