The dark side of the mountain blocks
your view of the sun.
And every night winds from the canyon
blow sand in your mouth.
You wake thirsty from a dream
about wanting.
You didn’t move here to fall in love,
but the idea of it is what draws you.
Searching for the sunset
catching moments of it
sticky clouds coming in from the west
like cotton hair stuck
to the silver candy maker.
The sweetest thing is sometimes imparted
through its absence.
So, like a sculptor
you set your eye to chisel
that light down,
to a notch,
a gap,
a sparkling stone.
It takes great power not to look at it.