Monday, January 13, 2020


January sky, empty sky,
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
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.