For my birthday, I’ve come to be

an antonym: economic with my tears 
and water-soluble. Annually, I lose

the fear of my ineptitude, and

kindred light switches pantomime.
It is not the day, but I, who chases

the night, and it is not the moon, but

I, who’s suspended there. 
Water, in its imminent plural form, stipulates

its obligations, collected in smatterings,

glistening on the coves others may call cheeks. 
Clouds are present, accumulating by

the droves, resolute in their exhaustions.