The Sun and the Stellar Structure

Another day and the Earth has spun once again,
twenty-four ticks on a calendar of tocks.
Another day and the Moon circles her shark,
delivering shade to the night and shape to the tide.
Another day and the Sun warms the fleas who think
She exists to warm them. She would if they didn't.
The Sun does not have days. She does not have time.
She has a soul of boiling hydrogen. She spins and flings.
We are slaves to a sliver of her waste.
She is an open eye and she has one blink in her.
The stars on the rim smile their extinguished flame.
Twinkle, we say, we fawn, and we wish upon them.
This is the fodder of sleeping bag gazers, of child philosophers,
It is the poetry of crayons, immortalized on construction paper
with glue and glitter and the innocent smiles of missing teeth.
They write not of hatred or forgiveness, nor the cruelties of curiosity
nor the love and the passion of unrequited dreams,
nor the kink and the lust of reptilian urges,
nor the emptiness of loves lost or the pallid squalor of love never found,
nor of back pain or disease or of fantastic orgasms or of evolutionary conquest
or of those pathetic roadside shrines to the teenaged victims of physics,
or of a hand held tight under a surgeons knife, or of proud applause,
or of whispered dreams and urgent nightmares,
or of people pressing bodies during moments of laughter and moments of tears.
They do not know they are gifted with giggling and crying.
They do not marvel at the sheer absurdness of it all.
They write of parents and stars and brothers
and the moon and sisters and the Sun. And pets.
The sad among them write of fear and confusion.
The saddest among them cannot hold a crayon.
So spins the Earth. So goes the time.
Each day a drama dies, a life is born.
On warm breezy days the gravity-bound feel the air that teases their forearms.
The rest of us; we are the wind.