Sun Sets

The sky is bleeding, seeping pink.
The hazy mist of a slaughterhouse as I
watch the sky slide down like a guillotine
to the hard horizon worktop, by still freshwater sink

Against which the cut can be
amputation-quick and disinfectant-clean.
Down through his burning red neck still peeping
over the parapet; he is at last felled and buried

Down in cold ground.
No more will he stand proud and endearing,
and rail and fight
against the injustice of clouds.

Would that my bruises and wounds
might blaze white light and heat
seeping through your vision
so that you might note them, and reset the Sun.