The dock’s boney legs, skinned by peckish barnacles and constant tides, stick out at unnatural angles, like a corpse picked at by vultures. The sun’s golden belly rests in a milky white blanket. She beats down on Earth, bleaching the outline of marine crustaceans onto the ravished pillars. She is impartial and, in the water, sears the blue fabric and leaves orange scorch marks. Tic-toc goes the clock. She kisses the birds, the clouds, the planes, the satellites, the carbon dioxide good night. As she hides her yellow paunch, pink and purple light soften the air. And then we are mooned and she says good night.