With tin roof rain from a leaking sky
Feeding the green that only
Comes out when its gray.
The dun likes the rain, unlike us
Protected as we are by archangels
And whatever else the mind needs
To construct our understanding of spirit,
We hide under the eaves,
Rely on older messages to respond
To earlier, long forgotten traumas
To explain to ourselves
What is happening, now,
What we should do
Now that the oaks are shadowed
And the crows veiled in leaves, unwilling to speak,
And the entrails have been clammed up
By shovels that lean precariously
Against an empty barn, seemingly
A primitive form of currency preserved
When it was never like that at all; the shells
Were honorings, because beauty is valuable,
The eyes of the beholder need no central bank
To validate the gold piece as it drops into the sea
To churn but not to drown, never losing itself
In what it is. There's a shack in Palau
That still stands from World War II,
Still leans into its memories
Still leans into its memories
Of the brutal leverages of the colonial fucks
And the ruthless occupier harvests,
And it still holds the fuel, keeps the tanks
From rusting on these kinds of days
Which are, someplaces, every days,
Where they scrub clean without thanks
And recycle as if soap suds through a porthole
In the washer, where, with each spiral
So little is lost in lint, as the revolution proceeds
Despite what the limp underthings would like
To do about it: end it, because that's when reflection
Begins, when one evens knows they are alive,
Separated out just so, engineered precisely to last
As an illusion, a form whose shadow takes
The sun, the whole melting ball of hot mess fire
That drops so slow for us, across the sky.
