The sun is slipping, and no manner
of frantic love, mindless drink
or runs along the darkening beach
can shore the thing up.
Night has lost its amniotic cradle
and now current lifts clothing
from our bodies until the sweat
turns cold and caustic.
We are on the inside lane
of the path across the ecliptic—
a constant speed suddenly ricochets
neck and spine like propulsion.
In some years the cant of our axis
demands full attention,
the gradient so pronounced that
clean dishes crash to the floor,
children spill into the streets
after a toyshop full of balls,
and the truth cascades out
of our mouths, unbidden.
In the dog days, about this time,
we ride bareback atop something
immense doing its damnedest
to shrug us off. We hang on.