Wayna Capac Questions the Sun

My priests object

to how I stare you

out of the sky,

how I defy

your blaze.


I felt your arms

melting away nights

in exchange

for our meager

offerings, but I worry

about your tired


shafts of heat, unable

to rest in the dark, familial plains.

My vision blurs,

but I resist blinking

when I look


into your stinging void

where your black, wavering

sphere blots inside

your white hot,

leaving me to wonder

if you serve another.