There is no sun like ours,
when the sparrows carry it lightly
into place. They leave clean stitches
you can hardly even see by squinting.
Bows mid-air, then whispering away.
I've been to other cities. Strange parks.
Saved details to bring back home to you.
From the hills outside London, "Their sun
sags long range doom, a funeral skirt
reversed to pretend a willing bridesmaid."
On the girders of unbuilt New York,
"A self-inflicted wound held up in triumph,
this sun drips gold-flake blood which
soaks reluctantly into floorboards while,
eyes dead ahead, trees clap only admiration."
On a Greek beach I wrote, "Here the sun
knows better than to leave the water.
It peeks lazy above the horizon all day,
draws a deep breath before dipping under,
and pities the hills their station."
But you and I have it best.
On our cushion of folded grass,
your grandmother furious we've stolen
her For Display Only quilt again. All of it
glowing through fine-wine crystal.
There is no sun like ours.
It gathers between our teeth. Aftertaste
of unearned hope. Courage pulled
close around our shoulders. Held tight
against the sky, no branch, no snag,
no shivering undone night.