The Nature of The Unnatural

Until

you decide that the sun must be shot,

as it roars with its gaping possibilities.

blood smeared on your thighs.

it must be killed cleanly, skinned and seared with dignity,

a slab of light,

with its opaque juices,

crawling down your throat, inside and out,  

dewey and dripping with its packs of luminous muscle,

a satisfactory sheen,

no longer beating and throbbing as the heart of Day.

and with your fork, its spongy filaments

are torn methodically from dawn.