i dream

i watch the son of atlas crest
the curve
of the horizon
of the world which rests

upon his father's
long back.

he, too, hunches;
stooped shoulders slung,
his two arm
stretch, bear other

burdens, the weight
of the fear of man.

he smears a cynic's
smile at me
strikes out a hand.

it holds one quick second.

the other, so taxed,
or full, can only drag
bloodied knuckles, bones
bare from one
eternal scraping.

his teeth glisten in my ear,
he tells its contents:

the sound
of the setting sun.