Almost an Island
The flowers my son & I plant blossom as strange & disappointing
eyes. We come to find them beautiful. Isn’t it our job to find legs for
the clouds above us? Isn’t it a door opening oddly in the morning &
to see that someone again calling out across kitchens & sugar
packets & “I lived” that green green world across the river. Walk
with me until there. If you cover a subcontinent with ink it resembles
familiar land masses. Whispering peninsula to strangers might have
mixed results. My umbrella has left me. I still have the handle. The
poem is hungry for etchings on all of its sides & we’re out
tattooing stars & stars & stars. Have we forgotten the birds?
The shape of her laugh. When I walk in the rain the rain is ink.