How much light urges from the sun?
Most is lost to infinity. Still
the trickle that falls to earth fires the aurora.
Sometimes you stare at the the sun. You stare
too long and it aches. Your eyes force themselves
shut. You see bluegreen echoes of the sun inside
your closed eyes. You open your eyes
and the tears come. The world haloes, flares.
You look at the sun and you have to look away.
It isn’t allowed. You can’t
receive all that. There isn’t room.
A photo is a reflection of memory,
a bounce off the surface of a moment.
When you train your eye on the image
you find your negative—deflected,
polarized (as if Sol imagined that Terra
were its mirror). Reflection is cold,
insubstantial, on the verge,
a mirage, a passing wave.
I sense you best with closed eyes.
It is impossible to capture light
in a photo or in the vault of memory--
sooner put a dancer in a bottle.
So much light pours from the sun.
I am trying to capture sunlight in this poem
but all I have is a net,
a poor container, like me.