what is it about the water falling
from the clouds is mystical enough that
we’d prefer to call it something else. and in
calling it that something, give it power,
give it backbone, though in truth
there really isn’t one. and what is really
anyway the difference in it from my spit,
aside from whatever specks of shit and
enzymes make it better, or it worse?
then, following a week, a rainbow to keep
the hope alive, even though both she and
i know that the truth is sad, but secretly
much sadder; that refracted light cuts
deeper than the normal, garish white that
blankets everything in pauses. “you know…
sometimes its just a little late, but you can’t know
the exact time or date to the degree that
this is something someone would
or could have foreseen.”
oh but we can, and could, and will, when i’m
the cannon and the fodder in attempts to
be by definition an other one’s father.
lying…laying? i don’t know which is correct,
or what exactly constitutes a second chance,
but i know i don’t deserve them, and i’ve
had like seven. you’ve had to piece a parenthood
a little bit at times alone. you don’t deserve the
innocent considerate, and if i’m being honest,
fucking constant attempts to ask and Offer Kindness.
but the most observant with the biggest lens
can still confuse a symphony and smudge.
instead i’ll paint a fresco in the wax that melts
from my pores. these stippled hairs the wicks alight,
and each one signifying one of seven nights i’d let us
both be stabbed beyond the ides. what is it then
about the water falling from the sky that makes us
bow our heads in deference to a gust of air?
and who do you blame, when these elephants
aren’t white, and though you asked for them,
inferred no burden’s worth the bear?