Noon

The planets are falling
Dramatically, like blubbery drops of honey.
Silvery orbs of mercury
Unloading onto our barren earth.
The plains are hence decolourised.

The clouds are falling
With tremendous weight; bags of
Scorched gold.
They fall like pale, lipid dots of
Incandescent ice, melting from an invasion
Of salt.

The ceiling is falling
From exhaustion, crying out in pangs of
The substanceless heat –
An oven or sorts, floating over
His iron head by midday.

(His eyelids are falling,
Slowly, too. Sol will hush him
Goodnight.)