The Sun I Used To Envision

The sun I used to envision
when I thought about
happiness (that word
that has to be attached 
to something to be 
real, that must be embodied
for it to mean anything)

has set over there, behind
my last memory of peace,
partially obscured by
an unstable cliff that might slide
into my path any minute now 
and remind me of coming out
from a tunnel high up on the caldera 
outside Alamogordo, New Mexico
as rain poured a pure red waterfall
laden with stone and mud
into the road

and I stopped 
to look at it, afraid to drive ahead
into the city of atoms, unable to
turn around and return to
the reservation behind me

with its answers I could not learn,
watching this stream
tear across the asphalt
as if sent then by my happiness
to say you shall not pass,
you may not approach, this

is the limit and the sun you’ve envisioned
when you think of happiness
has set and this memory
of torrent and darkness and 
blocking will define
your road from here.