We wait and work and watch
and wait for the lightning to hit.
The charm pours down onto the ground
and the ants drown.
We’re drunk on convenience
and the speed with which we shift
between identities / desires.
Our skin slackens with spirit’s
disappointments.
The poignant minute
poised as you brushed my cheek
with your fingertips catches
up with me in the middle of the night.
It webs me in a feeling I have
to rehearse till I get its name right
I run short of time
and these moments pile up and
I can see now
this is what aging means.
That, and falling from worlds
I thought defined me.
The role can’t hold us
still in time, any more than
the power of love or the photograph.
I can’t compete.
My heart is just an organ, my dreams
the way I process in my sleep.
Our dramas warm us
and we heat the earth
(we don’t like to talk about that yet)
