Round That Sun

As I spin round that sun,
All the while, thinking I’m at the center—
As the circle comes undone,
And in my eyes, planks replace the splinter—

The Gemini becomes the Taurus,
And who the moon and stars tell me I am
In the paradox of harmonic chorus
Versus the static, stubborn man.

The poet and the scientist
Walk hand in hand along the crashing tide,
Looking for another whom somehow missed
That they were simply following his stride.

They push and pull like arguing brothers,
As if they could mimic circadian rhythms.
One voice of Self, one voice of the Other—
Both voices drowning out all hymns.

Sometimes, a song breaks through their din,
And sometimes, they may pause
To listen to the siren-calls of whales.
Overhead, the sun bakes brown their skins,
Burns through their hounding cause,
And my sins drop off my soul like scales.

For you see, I am those brothers,
As well as for whom they search.
I am not broken upon the island rocks.
I am the sun, the self, the others,
Each tiny grain of sand, the church.
I am the watchmaker and his discarded clock.

And despite the solitude he craves,
They still say, “No man’s an island.”
But we are islands, each and every one,
And if you baptize your eyes below the waves,
You’ll see those brothers, hand in hand,
Joined together, spinning round that sun.