Far Under the Old Old Sun

It’s far under the old, old sun,
there is a heart to the heat.
Dust blooming like flowers of mist.
There is memory here,
and a tightening of breath.
And serrated edges that focus on the horizon…
… or point at the past -
it’s always hard to tell.
The day seems shorter still.
Somehow… Constricted at the pith.
There is truth to be found here - or so they say.
Maybe. There is a rightness to the thought.
After all, there is a feel of something…
at the edges - always at the edges.
Never mind.
This is what I choose to remain.
This and nothing more.