The Sun God Slips Away

In the afternoon I watch you gather the wet cloths

of the morning’s potential

and begin to wring them dry.

By nightfall the cloths become

dried up bits of paper,

husks that scatter in the wind.

The problem with you, sun god,

I whisper as I crawl beneath twisted sheets,

is the way you disappear,

take everything with you

and leave me to wrestle with the cold night.