Sunset Cue

It is the tyrant’s custom to wear the sun under his wings,
to show the sun when challenged
in the pulse of aerial
display. His tail cuts,
not as the state cut the route

through the forest between the city and dam
but as space cut and come together
without a seam,
the kind of cut that heals
itself without a scar,

absolute rule which he reveals.
He sits on the road signs (for curves, for speed,
use caution please)
in his territory, his mate
lining a nest with cigarette filters

from the shoulders of the highway.
The ore in this place
has made man a king.
Like law, like ore, a sun
fits under the flycatcher’s wings.