Like muscle-bounce bouncers,
the twin mountains stood —
ominous & imposing.
An hour of light per day
squeezed between those broad shoulders.
One hour of sunlight —
in the good seasons,
when there was sun.
The villagers’ days pivoted on that hour.
Whatever is the opposite of a siesta, they lived it.
an hour of frenetic love…
of the outdoors
of the sun
of love, itself.
Outsiders found the place dismal & gloomy,
but they never loved the sun
like those villagers love the sun.
casting the lake afire,
cooling to dusk
fooling so many souls
who thought you full
as the sun creeps higher
the moon’s unseen hand
is at work
people stagger down to sunrise beach,
like a zombie horde,
bed creases still fading
in the literal sense —
not the kind seeking some shade of bronze
and what better to honor?
should the sun fail to shine
we’re eight minutes from our midnight
should it disappear altogether
we would hurl away,
an ice block
to be slung about by gravitational fields
or to simply careen into some other
unsuspecting block of ice or iron
except for vents from our molten core
all energy begins in that solar furnace
all green leaves
all creatures who eat the green leaves
all the creatures who eat the creatures who eat the green leaves
all fired by that grand fusion