It makes good sense to organise your sun.
You switch it on and wait to be a star.
Truth is content with such a sweet eclipse
Arrived at naturally. Light equips
Your birthright’s quark, your memory’s pulsar,
An inside moon would be a dreamer’s pun.
And we are for the dark. The dark is for
The race re-run in Helios’s car.
A light bulb’s still on sentry duty, one
More squaddy of the all-enlisting sun.
The darkness fails to tell us who we are.
To map a lake you have to skim its shore.
The sun, the Aten of what is, may seem
The Devil’s emissary. Monks awake
Are only drones, but dreams point every way.
Do oracles convince or just explain away?
Turn out the light for credulousness’ sake
And leave it on that Lucifer may dream.