Betwixt the moon and morning lies
one bright sunbeam. Geology spills
into the dawn; the entire day is full
of peaks and plains and rivers
content with their contours, their
density and age. Gorges yawn,
stir, convulse with waking.
The oceans swallow themselves,
then spit themselves at the moon.
If you look closely, you might
notice the luminous smoky heat
of any human city (which glowed
so brightly through the night)
disappearing now in the alarming
incandescence of the aloof, abiding sun.
—Holly Welker’s poetry and prose have appeared in such venues as Best American Essays, Bitch, and the New York Times. She currently lives in Mesa, Arizona.