A Passing Sense that There areOther People in the World

I say I'm inside the rain
but the day drops bright sun upon the leaves
much clearer than I ever will reveal.

I hide from the sun's perfection
in the perfection of the poem,
hoping that the morning moon
won't slide into the blue,
knowing what I find with eyes
to use is compromise;
beyond its backdrop all my terrors lie
unreachable in kind
—the painting and the words about
the painting must suffice.

The curse of observation:
the sky darkens
as I find the words for sun.