A clay pigeon landed on my sill
and told me this story:

When the earth rolled on top of the sun
and crushed it into gleaming sand,

all of the world’s sadness
sat in one man’s unblinking eyelid.

He cried the tear that sparked the flood.
A sunset is powerful, the man explained.

The clay pigeon continued:
When the sadness spilled over,

everyone but us drowned
even though it poured into

us like ink through your eyes.
The black yolk of the pupil

is a small pool peeking out.
Then, as had always happened,

it flew away and shattered
in mid-air and I wrote this,

and this.