It's raining but the dog won't come in.
All morning a sobbing sky
leaving no room for imagination.
His naked hands in November, like that, but colder
just before the heat.
That's how it is losing a heart
to the highway – like the sun sinking in half
degrees or like eating the moon
down to the rind. East is the story I make believe
in the middle of a Michigan night
with broken blinds, either always drawn or always exposed.
Oh my northern lights!
My bleeding sand dune screams and whispery pine songs!
The boats are empty now
the shores without moors.
I remember when the sun warmed my clothes
hot shirt against sweating skin
Will it rain for 40 days? The wettest yet; the impossible get.
Is it not you
looking for something to burn?
A jonquil sunrise
and ghosts of quatrain lines
pouring whiskey into the wishing well.
Is this a tango or a waltz?
Wallflowers the size of broken hearts. I saw
fingerprints on her guitar in the 23rd Psalm bar light.
Lay me down, good shepherd. Wrap me
in the lashes of a willow. Build the ark.
Sail to Nineveh.
Just do something before we drown.