Blinded by a chance at permanence,
via satellite I watch a sliver
of Alaskan sun,
wishing darkness could bloom.

To save your sight,
you follow the disarmed orb
focused through pinholes
or multiplied by leaves.

The lightshow dances
the grass, a primitive projection
so much like a marriage as it ends.
No one can gaze straight at the sun.

Cold echoes into spring
no matter where you are or who.
I drink from this glass alone,
blotted again by the moon.