It’s the best
day of the year.
It won’t get any darker
than this—
rock bottom,
jumping off point,
no place to go
but up

toward the light.
A low-riding sun
interrupts the sky.
It’s not an interruption;
it’s a dialogue
to shake free
from fear
of the blues

in our private factories
whirring beneath
another midnight’s
high. You prefer
figure eights
to infinity. Nowhere
does the sun set
in the east,

“keeps risin’
in the west
I keep on wakin’
fully confused”
the song goes.
Why the tears?
Because you’re too afraid
to go home. The City

goes on
without you.
That boy’s going to be 60
before the year ends.
Then all of us
tail end
of the boomers
sixties babies

will start
following behind.
You used him
as an excuse
to ruin your life
till you hear
Rilke shout
“You must change your life.”

How did we get here,
fixed on this point
of the analemma?
No regrets
this far north,
running along
this beautifully flat
lake laden land.

So much light
to come
within your reach
from either side
of the solstice.
I prefer
to stand still
before another reversal.