By | 1 May 2019

How long can it rain when there has been no rain—
what is want, what is exactitude—when is an ending
a beginning. There is never any

snow in winter, never rain—always nature
concluding—giving you stars when you forgot stars,
giving you abundance. When you leave you let

the light in. When you leave for one reason or another—
a sudden car in liminal space—a lost liturgy to
immovable climate, or the way

breath brings you to the borders of your body.
Sometimes it bares its teeth, shows its bones, embraces
and invites. Sometimes it won’t let you in.

The precision of language—a gesture towards the
answer you forgot the question for—this, you say,
pointing in the other

direction, at trees existing for themselves the way you
and I do. And I mean it when I say it—I would do it all
over again, not remembering who

asked for thirst first, for drought break. Small fists
of hail on brown grass—a baby cries—
love is a bullet in the eye.

This entry was posted in 91: MONSTER and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

  • No Related Posts Found

Comments are closed.