4 Days Later: Give Me Water

Every small gesture signals the known

world is a house of cards running down water


spouts out to the gutter you are so used to.  You no

longer have any fear of falling.  Some sort of ending


in a little brown raft is carrying my heart.  What

kind of paradise am I

looking for?  My face painted by the sun


bears my masked words hiding from my tongue, as they

fucking echo in my head: every scream,


all those promises.

Don’t mates


have the primary purpose of keeping their tribe alive

no matter what?  Why is that so hard for us


to understand?  It must be too simple

for such sophisticated things.  Simple truth is I don’t know


shit.  But it’s when someone’s eyes glisten in a new faith

requiring no God, just the word exhaling over my biting


lip.  It’s like the calm beauty of the Bay called Misery

while constellations dance on the sweeping sound of water on sand.


1 Comment

  1. Have missed seeing your poems.

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