Cinderblock canals run gray
with water longing to be clean.
On the right kind of day, when
the wind is talking softly and
the sun has shown itself, a few
of us shudder off our stagnant
jackets for a taste of naked
disintegration. To rise, we
must leave most behind.
In clouds we condense,
a plump freshening after
the long smog and mire slog
below. We gather together
a fullness we didn’t know
we could have. We decide,
at once, with no discussion,
the time is right. The rush,
the flush of self into the mass
of everything down down
alongside a million other
drops becoming rain.
Does the water dream of being rain?
In cinderblock canals,
Does it wish for evaporation?
To rise and rise,
a buoyant disintegration.
Edges diffuse so that
it feels like everything?
And then, a delicious condensing,
luscious heaviness, languid, until it
plumps and starts to fall.
Free fall, a swandive down down,
surrounded left, right, above, below
with a hundred thousand, million, billion
other drops descending in an endless flow
that turns the whole world the color of rain.
To be a single drop in the cloud, an honor —
a chance to fly, to feel yourself unmerge.
These poems were written 77 days apart. I present both here as an illustration of how much a few months time can change one’s approach, thought process, and taste. It’s my hope that in 77 more days, I will be able to produce a completely new riff on this concept.