A Place Under This Sun

The blasé gaze of the Sun makes me blush each morning
I imagine myself stretching for It to the four corners
breathed into, by the light of Its touch, ragged ends of night dreams
disperse, those of the day illumine 


when the alarm clocks sadistic bone rattling digs in
the mirage touch is blasted into thousands of sharp seconds
the blunt object of 60 minutes beats my head
24 hours have me in a strangle hold 


my squint breaks, as I try to magnify a single ray to a pinpoint
to pass it through the eye of necessities needle 
in an attempt to sew a heliologic patchwork of brilliant ideas 
that match the airy whims of my star sign


into an exact science as to why I should get up
to cast a feisty fiery glimpse on the equinox 
of a reason for why I shouldn't just 
play all day, only to stub my toe on the table leg of obligation.


The planet goes about its turning business
I wriggle under the food sac I am commissioned to carry
at birth, my national insurance number proof evidence
Do I resign to being placenta? My body the nourishment?
my mind expendable, irrelevant? 


Plugged in, I can tune out
but at times, I am irrevocably distracted by
a heat, that reason has no business with.
It just is, captured by solar panels


on roof tops, screwed on street poles
fueling disgruntled cogs, people in buses, in cars,
on the cold pavement rushing by me,
blurred by the warmth on my back. The fog inside 


evaporates when I halt
to lift my face east and bathe
for a timeless moment, 
thinking of daisies in Summer.