The Sun Goes Off Poem by W.M. Rivera

behind accumulating clouds this morning;
reappears; it seems seduction, then the going

under Earth again as if the word ‘indefinite’
describes reality, as if life’s rhythm
is a romance without end. Yet rivers are not
stepped in twice. Time and i will not begin again

even if my father floated in a kiss good night, which he won’t
or poet Verhaeren fall down counting hours
which he did.

images of loss, rough
drafts with more than half left out, what went before
the make-up hours at the drawing board. The ambiguity
come down to this: life’s unambiguous

pain’s a gift that brings back mini-odysseys,
events endured, and yet the non-stop minutes hesitate
most surely at what isn’t, always there.