The sun my God

Like the ancients to the sun
How could I ignore what I praise to see?
They had their Icarus
But I have only a book that closes when it hears "what if?"
You could shine on the whole world
And I'd blush at my sunburned hand
This isn't the love of poets or artists,
Though I see you often in their dispelling
I can't think,
Even in the face of a fire I sparked myself,
Of anything but how long it would take to sleep the moon away
Dear whatever,
Cut my hand and I'll torture myself forever