An Hour’s Bright Thought in the Dust

Sun on a matte plane, such as
A parked car’s dash, caked in dust—
That’s what your thoughts mean to us.

You’re the stove, the heat and light.
At times, you scorch or blind us,
But then you crash land just so

And sprawl out for our glad eyes.
We know it’s not you we see,
And we know you don’t own us,

But there’s this fine calm that falls
That is warm and bright, yet not
To do with us, and far less

Than the rest of what you are.
We’re your words, then, your thoughts ours.