The Sun

A chariot? No. More of a glowing coal.
Or a magnet — pulling so hard it forms a ball,
pulling so hard its core implodes, and all
that effort sprays as a golden haze, which feeds
a far-off seed, which gamely sprouts a soul,
which dreams up a yellow wheel and fiery steeds.

The Sun’s a center, source of heat and light.
It’s we that move, not he. You figure it out.
And “he” was never he: that came about
because the human mind personifies:
what fits with our experience must be right.
We see a charioteer traverse our skies.

The Sun’s agnostic, a vast indifferent eye.
He sees us looking up, and wonders why.