without the sun

without the sun
you are flour, a white page
of paper with two
eyes and teeth, a pair
of thin lips and ears.
you are an egg
without the sun,
wanting to be boiled,
to be poached
or fried.
you are cold without
the sun.
you shiver as you stand
on a corner in
the snow, shuffling
your wet feet in the gloom
of near darkness.
you are lost without
the sun.
sometimes you stop
people on the street
and ask them,
do you remember,
do you remember that
thing that used
to be in the sky.
you take your hand
and point upwards.