They could exist all day beneath
the earth’s limbs, and think of sunshine
only as the brute force it is:
so quiet in its precision, so tight
against the curve of the sea,
so lonely as it starts to ebb away,
the wind a kind of collar left
next to a dog’s bone,
barely above silence—
They could exist forever
and not rise to ask,
is the sun a person?
Or can some things be outside the self,
daydreams of the empyrean?