wb :

O Sun! What wakes your eye each day anew
And turns it over every sleeping stone,
Each lake, each tree, each blade of grass you grew?
What calls you to your fief when winds have flown,
When shadows cross your barony have blown?
What greatnesses your gaze had turned to scry?
What sights might waver your immortal eye?

O Sun! Within your luminous purview,
Out of the clay our shivering limbs have grown;
Those very hands wrought boats from fallen yew,
And where they fell, the seeds of cities sown;
Slaves to your seasons, yet your light disown,
And beauty artificed, as though we shy
What sights might waver your immortal eye!

O Sun! In fear, your symmetry we drew,
But pride our breasts had swelled, and none bemoan
Your blinded back, as all our sins accrue-
The starved and sick upon the altar groan,
While in their palaces, the rest atone;
O judge, accomplice, jury! As we cry-
What sights might waver your immortal eye?

O Sun! Your servants, we, have stared at you,
And seen a haughty king upon his throne!-
And we, conspiring of your power, drew
The fire and the sword you bore alone,
Usurped your crown, your reins!- O, had we known
The vastness that you stared, we would not vie
What sights might waver your immortal eye.

the laptop hums strangely
like a warm disaster
should've known then
that you would
hurtle off-key
once the playlist
shuffles track

count ships. it won't
be easy, for they like
to pass unnoticed
in the night


but they're better
than their woolly-headed,
monosyllabic
counterparts