May 08

This Poem Has No Name It Takes Willingly

There is a storm sitting across from me at my kitchen table,
and you may think it's odd that a storm is my therapist
but you may also think it's odd my fingers twist the stars
from the sky's grasp and wrap them in my daisy bed sheet.

And I think,
what if the problem is not that your lover loves you
but that you love your lover?
and how does that change when your lover is rain?

And rain isn't always there for you.
So you make your own rain,
pouring from your eyes that are clouds
except there is no sun hiding behind them.
                .          .          .  
I don't know what lightening would be transferred into my body
but if you now make the rain, the thunder must be
the loud spacebar in the keyword you are reluctant to hit
because if you stop the lyrics flying from your tongue for just one second...
you are afraid they will no longer want to listen.