This one favors the fiction of rain
a short history of abandoned damp -
mossy needs met and reciprocated
beneath an imagined moon
and recovered starlight.
The dark planes of an unanswered wish
shift to dust
salting the creases
that seem to pull his eyes out onto the world.
In the shining hollows of damp sheets
lit by street-lights in the darkness
night begins to remember his name
as though broken
by a back-handed dream.
A weary pull of whiskey
once again settles his tongue
into the cottony embrace
of a moment's slow fade.
And there is no question
that the great green ball we dance on together
will continue to spin us towards age
and to ghosts.
And there are no answers
that will seem half as flesh and filled
as the wet fictions he hides beneath the map-work
of his palms.
There is a small bit of joy to be had
crashing blindly into dangerous stories.
Throw your arms ahead of you
close your fists around the almost-solid
Make a wish that belongs behind trees.
