I Loved The Sun

I loved the sun
from a window that had been made
by the sun.
What’s calling done?
The call of my hope at the sun
through a window
made by a billion years
of mineral toiling.
What’s calling done?
Nothing is done.
So I long and hope as an object
calling home
around a star
I must have come from
in some form,
looking at myself,
in some form,
distant, calling, now alone.

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