the edge closest to the sun
There is a starkness to this light; a fascination with fireballs and comets like the vitreous bodies of giant eyes, spheres of hydrogen and helium fusing like the deep shadows on the streets between
tall buildings, which trick the nyctinastic flowers – such as citrus-coloured daises in window boxes – to close their petals, like the ciliary muscle expands the iris in the magnesium-blazing brightness
beyond the gloom. At the frontier, particles of light and dark collide in sullen acrimony. They cluster, bright parasols and windbreakers in primary colours, in a boundary that rips and tears like the jagged rim
of an oyster shell. This edge is a place of certainty. Of the conviction of an acolyte, of a bluntness of knowing that is as inescapable as the sombre oval cast onto the pavement by a wide-brimmed hat.