The Sun

By Dan Chiasson

There is one mind in all of us, one soul,
who parches the soil in some nations
 
but in others hides perpetually behind a veil;
he spills light everywhere, here he spilled
 
some on my tie, but it dried before dinner ended.
He is in charge of darkness also, also
 
in charge of crime, in charge of the imagination.
People fucking do so by flicking him
 
off and on, off and on, with their eyelids
as they ascertain their love’s sincerity.
 
He makes the stars disappear, but he makes
small stars everywhere, on the hoods of cars,
 
in the ommatea of skyscrapers or in the eyes
of sighing lovers bored with one another.
 
Onto the surface of the world he stamps
all plants and animals. They are not gods
 
but it is he who made us worshippers of every
bramble toad, black chive we find.
 
In Idaho there is a desert cricket that makes
a clock-like tick-tick when he flies, but he
 
is not a god. The only god is the sun,
our mind, master of all crickets and clocks.
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