It seems I’ve spent a whole lifetime
Just trying to get across one room.
I already mistook the sun in a painting
For an actual east, but it did lean inward
Toward the androgynous shore.
West there was an ocean in the basement.
Its dusk made it easier to see that an Orb of Light
With a single beam had been circling my building.
Every seven years it came back on the night of Winter Solstice;
Now it just stays, downward; the door
At the top of the stairs.
Where the dark seed of naming
Bursts its broken heart open.
Outside the pane,
The solar plexus, sun
Where the four directions are sacrificed,
Hovers above the sill:
It’s the heart of Muse, the center
Of your forehead’s opening eye.
