I wrote the title of this poem on a friend’s Facebook thread, in a sentence describing road work in my neighborhood. A fellow named Ethan Black responded:
“Sunset is always under construction.” I know you mean the road, but…
And it got me thinking. So I wrote this. Now I can sleep.
Sunset is always under construction.
Sunset is always under construction.
Sunset is thrown together of light,
The guileless wobble of rock as it spins
Above an unremarkable star.
Raccoons, opossums come to build its stage;
They jury-rig it: twist-ties, trash-can lids.
Nighthawks and bats come, too, and they sweep
Sunset’s path clear of flies and bits of moth.
Sunset is always under construction.
Sun settles in at each day’s dawn
To glean from Earth all the things it will need
The hasty plans, the half-reached wisdom,
The sudden widows’ sharp sodden grief,
Triumphs not yet undermined and loves
Not yet-time-ravaged, the quiet solitary joys,
Seeds sown, new born, cells splintering into cells,
The Sun collects them all, and arcing west it builds
Its Set of all of them in turn,
Weaving each night’s blues and fire and blood.
This is exquisite, Chris.
(Copied it to keep in my notebook.)
Thank you. H
Beautiful. Especially the last six lines. I am not a memorizer, but I want to memorize them.