Summon this sun to math, to a small speck
open to fault; a hero can’t travel
this relative distance. Queens, embedded
with boys cheat the North of its wanton joys,
open their mouths wide for geese to escape.
This is the here-ness that is everywhere—
caesura infinitely flat, only
known as summed breath hurtling into glacial
teeth, into a cloud, into the throats who
ring the North, never offering warning.