The Back Side of the Sun

When I cry with bitter tears,
such that if you happen to wash in their pool
I fear you may get poisoned,
don’t send your reasonable questions
like straight arrows that hit the mark
to inquire of the “how’s” and “why’s”.
And don’t you spread your white kerchief
with its four corners, straight and rigid,
to take in the anguish of ink black drops.
Only your palms see if you can
loan me,
circumflex accents rounded and wet
to offer punctuations of companionship.

Or, if this is utterly impossible,
send me a glance of yours—welcome guest—
so that I can show him, amidst the rhomboid crystals
of my private dreams,
the golden disc of Master Sun
as I see him:
from the back side,

the only side of his I can reach.

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