The Water Carries

Upon a piece of

the broken glass

a drop of water

levels with us,

sands us down to passing clouds,

bevels with the soft shades of the kitchen's hours,

our shadows spaghettified to infinity

as if the sharp edges bled

to let us out.

The glass in the picture window

is larger -

heaves closer to the sky

in the same manner in which

it sometimes re-liquefies itself

in the edges of our lamplight -

yours in one corner, mine in the other

softening the center,

making the rain whole again.

In the same manner in which

the water runs

through my fingers

with the whole softness of the home

and I am splintering,

bleeding it from my sharp edges

to let it go.

circling the drain

a rope of itself -

a series of them

running down into the center

into one place

stubborn in its blackness and its depth,

springing stagnant pools

whose images

like all other images

are lost or never taken

or occupying the mind

with a demand for details,

darting anxious wings,

crawling legs,

overflowing.

Within a piece of the broken glass a drop of water bevels with the familiarity of a place - the smudged and spattered representations of it as best it can - the two of us spaghettified and swimming in our shadows. The panel of glass in the window is larger - heaves closer to its origins, a hedge between home and sky in the same manner in which it sometimes re-liquefies itself in the edges of our lamplight - yours in one corner, mine in the other softening the center, making the rain whole again. In the same manner in which the water runs through my fingers with the entire softness of the home circling the drain a rope of itself - a series of them running down into the center into one place stubborn in its blackness and its depth, springing stagnant pools whose images like all other images are lost or never taken or occupying the mind with a demand for details, darting anxious wings, crawling legs, overflowing.

Author's Note

. . .