Sun, constant

Nothing breathes here, not the way you're supposed to

where you give back what you take in.

The air is sticky, the sky is wet with a tireless

sun. All the living is done beneath solid ground

away from her prideful, orange eyes.

When your body cries out, nobody will hear it

besides the beetles and the dirt.

The closer you get to the sky, or the sun, or god, you realize nothing

is miraculous.