The windows in the living room
are open to the sunset
as we welcome the
uncannily
perfect spring weather.
The light behind the mountains
is clear and blended,
from fire
into the first step of space.
I've been taking a picture of the sunset
at least every other day
since March,
and the last one I caught
featured the Poet's Siren:
a waxing crescent Selene.
The phase of light and shadow
under which I was born,
silver sliver of wonder
against an uninhibited cyc
of muted royal blue.
Far above the jagged
scenic cutouts of the Olympic peaks,
she means a sign to me.
Waves in my chest voice,
depths in my head,
heights in my breath--
my hand is open,
palm up to the ceiling.
The song is second to last
and there's a faint glow
heating my limbs.
Stars say I'm a Sun sun,
but I've always felt more
awake after dusk.
There is a small power
in conjunction with this.
A small power,
and a small peace;
I feel like sharing.
So,
come with me
where they hang the lights,
because I promise you--
who has probably seen and done
almost everything where you're from--
you haven't seen this.
Not from here,
not this magic real,
not exactly this.
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