To the Sun by Gregory Corso

When the sun dips low like a great hooker, bringing tunes of exotic places i can tongue off the light that opens everything like a spoiled pearl. The sun is a magician, a priest in stain, it unlocks chambers and knocks again. When I wake and strip off my colony drunk with exhaustion, the sun arrives, a touch on the cheek,

• I am outside, becoming a thousand crazy things that dance around in the burning wind. Everything gets simple, every face is rape of beauties unpolished, every dormant head: melting because sunlight ties to my open hands? I protest, say nothing, this is the poem and I suck it all, call again, call us.

What miracle it is!

• Gregory Corso