The Quiet Sun

Just as I was taught to kneel, the sun became foreign to me. How to speak after a different daylight emerges? Name that black chamber, its seamless, quiescent surface. Speak after an epoch, an apocalypse—find again that strange word for dew.

Uncover a grain of light amid the reft between us. That word you pondered and turned about, ultimately left at contact’s door.

Tell me the name of this descant, its felted slide into the sea. Tell me the name of that absented hour, the space where solar shores failed to meet.

Quietness, a virtue. Harmonic darkness without intent, the vast cosmos of what is neither felt nor seen. No light against those furloughs.

Whose name bends without my attention.

 

Sueyuen Juliette Lee

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