Light usually comes into a poem from outside, through a window or over a horizon. In «sol», it arrives already inside the speaker. The title is the word for "sun" in Spanish, Portuguese and Latin, and the guillemets around it make it look like a quotation or a name, as if the word were something precious being held up. The poem is signed only akchiis, so everything below rests on the words on the page.
On the surface it is a love poem. The speaker feels a warmth that begins in an empty place, a "hollow / cavity", and spreads outward until it reaches the fingertips and is "bursting at my seams". All of it is directed at a "you", repeated three times and then narrowed to "only you". The surprise comes in the last three lines. The speaker knows this happiness will destroy them, will "inevitably melt away", and basks in it anyway. The central idea is that devotion can be total and doomed at once, and that the speaker chooses it with open eyes.
The imagery builds on a paradox. The sun is life-giving, yet it is lodged in something described as hollow, a body that was empty and now cannot contain what fills it. The "hope / left forgotten" suggests the speaker had given up on feeling this way, which makes the warmth a rescue as well as a pleasure. But "bursting at my seams" already carries a threat. Seams are where a garment fails, so the joy is stretching the speaker to the point of damage before the Icarus reference arrives. The poem has been preparing its ending all along.
That reference is the poem's boldest move. In the myth, Icarus flies too near the sun and his wax-and-feather wings melt, so the story is normally a warning about overreaching. Here the speaker plays the warning as a choice. There is also a twist in the geometry. Icarus is burned by a sun above him, while this speaker's sun is already inside, so the melting comes from within. The comparison is slightly loose, since it is the wings that melt in the myth and the speaker's whole self here, but that looseness suits the poem. The speaker is not reasoning carefully. They are overwhelmed, and the myth is the nearest shape for the feeling.
The form follows the feeling. There is no rhyme and no regular metre, and the lines vary in length, which lets the first stanza spill forward like warmth spreading. Enjambment drives this: "yearns / to see", "filling / me", "pours eternal, everlasting / admiration". Each line break leaves a small gap before the next idea arrives. Then the lines collapse into "you, / you, / you, / and only you," Each fragment gets its own line, so the repetition lands like a pulse, or like someone unable to think of anything else. The stanza ends on a comma rather than a full stop, and the next one begins with a lowercase "as i bask", so the sentence carries across the white space even while the layout suggests a pause. It is a held breath before the fall.
The diction is deliberately elevated. "Serendipitous luminosity", "splendour" and "glorious" sound almost formal, and "eternal, everlasting" piles two near-synonyms together as if one word of devotion were not enough. That grand vocabulary sets up an irony. The admiration is called everlasting in the same stanza that ends with the speaker melting. The feeling outlasts the person feeling it, or at least the speaker believes it will.
The lowercase throughout, including "i" and "icarus", has a quiet effect. Nothing here is announced with a capital letter, not even the speaker, and the whole poem seems to be spoken softly. The ending is the last example. "And never to see daybreak again" has no main verb, so it trails off. It is also cruel in a small way: someone who has swallowed the sun will never again watch the sun rise.
What makes the poem worth reading is its refusal of caution. It takes an old story about the cost of ambition and turns it into a statement of willingness, and it does so in a handful of lines. The sun is beautiful and fatal, and the speaker says yes anyway.