Thade Correa

Where Does the Sun Go at Night?

Last flare of twilight
two birds        wings furled     fall silent
stunned by falling light

Sometimes walking alone in the evening, the sky is a quiet singing. Birds fall silent listening to fractured hymns of dusk filling the horizon with mists of oily reds and orange, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, purple. Everyone invents his own death. I’ll keep on until mine is redolent as a late sky flowing into night’s expanse. I’ll keep on—soon the day will deepen into twilight, my heart will bleed into the cooling air of evening, the last bell will strike, the last hymn sound, and I’ll set out, never to be found in this body again. In Cornell’s Where Does the Sun Go at Night?, two birds have fallen utterly silent at this question. One perches on a maple branch, his mind filled with evening’s colored distances. He imagines the sun’s falling light absorbed into all that is. The other, sitting in thick grass, mind suffused with indestructible night, imagines it vanishes into nothingness. Neither speaks nor is able to speak.

The question, it seems, belongs to us.

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