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“We’re all golden sunflowers inside.” — Allen Ginsberg
A friend took a woman
thirty-five years younger than himself
to see the eclipse.
He made sure to tell me
that her small frame had
huge titties. Because that’s
what he needs,
a young woman
with a small frame
and big tits. Wanting
to impress the titties,
he rented a luxury motor-home,
parked in Wyoming’s wilds,
then he and the tits sat
in the eclipse’s
path of totality.
My friend never talks of beauty
or wisdom or poetry or
immanence or transcendence;
he has no regard for nature,
as he’s been so long married to work, money,
and titties.
When he returned from Wyoming,
he told me the eclipse changed him;
he felt connected to something larger,
an experience he’d never had before.
I did not see the eclipse
in its path of totality, didn’t
firsthand experience the best eclipse view
money could buy.
Rather, the eclipse
happily grabbed me
a few days after,
in a sunflower’s center,
a moment again
connecting me
to life’s mystery,
in a single, magnificent bloom.