Anurak Saelaow: What the Sun Said

Loper, I yawn from above
in patterns of uncoiling heat.
Over stupa or quarry, Ilium

or delirium, my image proceeds
through every blind drawn tight
to keep me out. Heraclitus,

conjurer of change, laid low
by fever, dressed himself
in cow-dung and knelt

in this column of light for days
before it took him. His body,
no longer his, shared instead

by strangers’ dogs. Such
is the nature of fire or flux —
to gnaw at the marrow

of this world before it comes
spilling out: a stream of glaze,
a rupture, indictment. A boy

guides my ray through
curved glass, onto an anthill.
This place has always reeked

of sinew and char. And if it
were up to me, Alexandria
would still be smoking.

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