I know from home, the big one
who takes up all the evening sky,
the red one who free falls over tenements,
the drama queen who dips in to dirty
waters when done for the day.
The sun I’ve known is a star.
Here, this paid-to-perform sun
stays still, delays disappearance,
does not sink until you tame it
into your sonnet about tourists
who trap the sunset with their toys.
Packed into a poem on the spot,
Your sun still slowly enters mine and
I too write of foreign, fading light.
Sunset at Siem Reap. A poem
from the comfort of a strange
land, this guilt trip for words
I failed to find at home.