Huge and hot and
engorged
as the sun is—
so showy
in its own violent ruination,
it is also
fiercely and
completely silent.
Can you just imagine
consuming your own raging actuality
in such a spectacular quarantine
as that?
No fate
could be worse, no vanity lonelier,
no lamentation more pathetic—to have
not even the forlorn moan
of the solar wind
to soundtrack your misery, not even
the terra firma
of embarrassment to fall
back on—really nothing
you can do after that
but get out of bed
and put a clean-ish t-shirt on.
