The orange light at the northern west
is neither the sun nor the moon
but this red cup is a beast
you ought to listen to that croon
and believe how your eyes will turn
like that of the orange light by midday
your entirety will burn, with much fervour: burn
without a single molecule of oxygen, like hay
in the summer countryside
where everything else is silent
or silenced. Hush, it’s where the sleeping rams reside
nothing to worry about, what is violent
in staying awake until the sun replaces the orange light
and in your eyes are varying blue flickers
those who live for this moment are the winners