Noon drops and twists, as from the gallows.
Sunrise’s liturgy of sunset; midnight’s allusion to noon.
Still creation. Still the still sun still atomized long after dawn.
I love noon. The light’s bad for photographs.
Noon. Harsh and shadowless, we deliquesce into Ezekiel’s wheels with noses.
Negatives: the iconography of noon.
Noon’s dispassion play. “Value drawings (rendered in shade and shadow) tend to convey emotions better than line drawings.” – Matt Frederick
Noon’s plainchant: no feeling, by the grace of God.
Copts painted icons at noon. No chiaroscuro.
The dispassionate glare of noon: neither umbrage nor penumbrage.
God divided the light from the darkness. The afternoon and the morning: the first noon.
Noon: the beatific vision. Good might: noon.
The day he died, the prick Mercutio pointed out the bawdy hand of noon.
Bright and portentous, noon twists like midnight’s lighthouse.
Reset the Doomsday Clock to high noon.
Noon: a Mass for June.
Noon. Sun wolfs a new moon.
June is noon overhead, its light a bright advent, though it grows a six-o’clock shadow by midnight.
Noon. Bright streams of black backstreets. Black water windows.
Across the white courtyard against the black windows, I looked at noon. They, there: said, nothing.
An eclipse each noon. The sun’s shadow’s darker than the earth’s at midnight.
Office windows: noon’s black blinders. We team alone.
Earthquake after noon. The sun stands still.
The orthography of noon: the A in apex.
Noon: sin cos sun.
Once each year in the tropics, noon picks you out of a lineup of billions. I’m on the lam, north of Cancer.
Smirk at noon’s slight slant? The sun’ll cure the Tropic of Cancer and smoke you out.
Don’t be cocksure on account of noonshine’s slight slant. Nothing crows at noon’s bright still.
High noon comes like a thief in the night.
How will the end come? And what are the signs of its coming? High noon over the North Pole. An unhinged walrus.
The end times’ sign: spring tide of a blue moon’s high noon.
Noon: the sun’s shadow.
The stare of noon’s glare.
High noon’s hiatus: still hawks.
Noon elsewhere: sunrise over the gunwale. An angler sights the sun in his oarlock and fires, finding respite.
The clock faces north, hour hand tracking the sun and tracing an owl’s eye, first here, then on the dark side. Our eye, too, tracking.
Noon over the barber’s pole: my black & white hair twists, turns, returns to the checkered floor. Swept with its fathers.
Snip, whisk; snip, whisk. Morning & afternoon divaricate, fall in wisps. “Where do you part your hair?” Noon.
Aperture priority, aimed straight up. Sunrise, midnight, and 5:40 P.M. arc & blur around noon like stars around Polaris.
In the age of sail, the noon observation reset time & place. It was never noon, & you weren’t where you were, until the captain said so.
“Noon and 46 degrees 36 feet south if you please, sir,” said the master.
“Make it twelve,” said the captain. “Make it twelve,” said the officer of the watch. “Strike eight bells,” said the mate of the watch.
“Turn the glass & strike the bell,” said the quartermaster. “Pipe to dinner,” said the officer. The boatswain piped. Hoots & running.
The monks carried on man-of-war fashion: the close quarters, the watch and watch, the noon observations, the wooden vessels.
Hard noon. A nail of a noon.
The hammer struck noon.
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