Beyond the eastern horizon that great star we call Sol,
burns treetops as it rises,
and ignites grass blades with light.
My kitchen’s uncurtained windows refract
the glare, changing from Rembrandt lighting
to straight-ahead tear-inducing brilliance.
Such a strange thing, crying.
Some partake more than others, through pain
love, beauty, loss,
especially loss.
If I run at that horizon and dive off its edge
keeping my back arched gracefully
as east becomes west
I’ll plunge head-first into Terra Australis: Oz.
Where blinding flames and the hopelessness of tears
destroy
even the morning.
brief salvage 