The Sun Again Poem by Robert Rorabeck

The sun is a fine instrument, scalding the earth,
Making it leap and gesticulate, spitting the winds
From its orifices like young boys spitting across the abyss-
And the sun has seen us all awaking in our clays,
Drying us out as if we were swimmers sojourned from
The glassy pools: The ancient modifier, and spittoon of
Our olfactory- After school, what a kiss, and the way the
Women sway beneath that beam, each flaxen hair upon their
Evolved forearms like a forest of matches all on fire for a birthday.
He is the antediluvian pedagogue of science, the foreman of
Our architectures rising from the knobby reptilian kines of
The Nile, the priest who swings this censer, chanting ontology
Through the incense of continents: He has watched us divide,
Lose our tails and our minds for strange women when he has
Punched the clock into dusk: An easy allegory, the sun, the
Old workman, the furnace for our clays, the bastion of our
Swings, he has laid his hands upon our ancestors in streaming
Spindles, kissing the cragged hills, and grown grapes for wine,
And now he whispers the claret ants from their mounds, and
The picnickers to the field, and thus sets to motion our swift
Exchanges in the Mercado under his skies.