I’m hearing confessions this morning, from the wind, from
the shifty eyed moon. The wind is ugly when it breaks, falling
like inside-out balloons that have run out of breath, the moon
is liquid in denial, quicksilver tears searing the endless night.
It is their conspiracy, isn’t it? Their fault? What changed the
way things were supposed to be? What alters the coefficient
of morning blue? What crimps the arch of the horizon? What
makes the bees hum in a strange language? I could question
the universe, but we’ve been here before. You can predict the
answer if you can connect all the dots. If you can find all the
points. If you know where to look. If you know where not to
look. We impale our human pain on cardboard skies. We rub
our yesterdays with numb fingers till they never were, collect
rain in the cupped palms of our question marks. Answers are
poems with no beginnings. Ampersands with nothing to connect.
We forgive our gods. We fill our empty mouths with guilty stars.