Because the clouds resemble fists splayed against a caterwauling
teenage sky & fluky spring's a fluke of mud & construction,
a lie the mountains tell to each other and to fibs of rocky beach.
If I’m supposed to know, for example, why I'm here, an iceberg will
calve itself free of the mighty Arctic, leaking out secrets.
It should be that obvious, the way a body is
matinee to its own madness and fractured singing.
What if the body is a crater, not meaning to be
attracted to the rickety dark? Maybe it’s born greedy,
like a sea star. Maybe the body is maritime, an inlet
of devotion to chemical imbalance, & if only I can
dupe it into going steady, the two of us
shall never meet again, except as strangers.
Because trying to embrace life every single day
is boring, exhausting, pretty pointless if I’m honest,
I sometimes pretend a companion or two appears
in the fog, rolling in like newer reasons.