Leftovers

The sun sets
through translucent prayer-flags
gently stirring in the light
breeze that comes from
somewhere far away when
the sun first pushed this
soft wind my way,
this tender hand across
my cheeks like
a lover’s caress to
drive me silent under
this avalanche of joy that
pins me to emptiness like
a hooked fish,
a squirming doomed ego
fighting the torrent of wind,
the fiery, empty, unbreathable air,
raging to the last spark of consciousness
against the dying of the light when
unexpectedly it ignites anew,
takes off the sunglasses and
supernovas out from the center of
everywhere all at once.

This changes everything and
I was prepared for none of it.

When the sun rises,
it seems an impossible miracle but
in the next moment it’s
everything else that’s
transparently phantasmagoric,
a vivid yet impossible illusion.

I bask in the sun at
midnight satiated beyond belief by
some cosmic lover who
chooses to remain nameless.

Space and time are
consumed at dawn in
the same way waking feasts on
the remnants of dreams until
they are no more.