White Sun

There is an anger in this dry summer air.
Skin my only boundary,
I am restless and uncomfortable.
Fierce sun flares off my neighbor’s car window,
hurting behind my eyes
even though I was blinded a long time ago.

Still in bed.
I might want to wake up,
but I don’t want to get up.
Just hide my head & my body, 
thinking,
visioning,
erasing,
reconstructing,
projecting.

This is not new.
But I think I see what’s happening now.

Winter makes sense to me.
The days are short and inhospitable
but the darkness makes it easier to sleep.

This heat is not new.
Summer always comes,
aggressive, assertive, demanding.
The hazy Bay cannot disguise it:
I know you’re under there, 
heat and sun,
so why are you hiding your power?
It does not hurt any less.

Still in bed.
Do I want to wake up?
Will there be more pain, open-eyed?
I could remain asleep 
alive inside dreams
where it makes sense that nothing makes
sense.

I know that when I wake
The pain wakes too.
I could give up my power
to the system and the cycles

I either get up
because I cannot stay

Or

The earthquake comes,
tumbles my sad body out of bed,
and into the rubble of the White Sun.

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