The Sun has reached the zenith of its argument

The Sun has reached the zenith of its argument
with the Moon. I can hear the chiming bells
and rings around the satellite, the yelling
seems unreasonable. I've forgotten the true
purpose of her rise and from here my view
is compromised. The stories poets tell,
the lines that softly rise and gently fall
as if they revolved. The confusing virtue
of the trees has opened my eyes, I cry
in the emptiness of the modern. The deep
heavens devour meaning, the nothing buries
the sacred in individuals. I sing to keep
the Sun in its high throne. The weather varies
as the luminaries wander off to sleep.