January sky, empty sky,
gray-as-dead-eyes
sky, formaldehyde skin or mouth-wide-
open sky—
how do you remain so
agape all the time?
So exposed, so susceptible.
How could I too
resist healing over, welcome
supersaturation
with flying impostors? The sheer
tolerance, the lack
of pressure feels impossible.
I make a poor
open sore—after a while, I grow
uncomfortable speechless,
impatient crying out
only in waves,
not of nervousness,
joy, or pain—but of luminous
electromagnetic radiation—
obscured light
and useful rain.
