sun—at a quarter
to summer—is less
of a beacon
than an orange
flower blossom—
drifting
in skies
the character
of shallow water,
and taking
so awesomely
slow it's
unfurling,
as if
every careless corner
of its petals
were laughing
in the faces
of all
those rigid,
meticulous clocks
we've so ill-
advisedly
commissioned
in its honor.
