terminal

the sun, in solemn bronze sentiment,
wraps arms around rainclouds.

fluorescent bleach washes the hypnotic floor;
crystal plates stutter plasmic faces.

i sit, sore from standing, quiet feet.
my eyes ungrow in the fake half-light,

peel to my knees, while families find peace
at last in bony leather rows.

to fly is to move, to sleep is to die.
even as i remember Phaeton,

i am chasing the sun.
time will glue us together.