might have happened just like
Virginia Woolf said: time passes.
Many many suns
traveling their predictable matter-
of fact paths—though each one
is its own immeasurable dream
blinding bright as
untarnishing silver—
eventually blur, run
together, are forgotten.
It's a mercy
we are no longer
astounded by Copernican theory,
even a little disappointed
to finally behold
the Rhodes Colossus—and the
many alternate possibilities
which must invisibly ride along-
side every sunrise,
are necessarily discarded
if we're to ever to get
the day started—except (perhaps)
for the one exquisite fantasy
in which—neither we
nor the sun
ever bothered.
