It's hard to live as if you have an answer when every cry you cry
you would, if you could bring yourself to call it, rage.
I am the sound of walking across the eye of God
as if I own the place, with the heart of my childhood calling out:
"Look at me, look at me, look at me!"
He doesn't look any different.
My steps raise clouds of ash in traced coordinates
across the wasteland of a luscious yard
as I fall out into the ruins of a perfect home
to live with the ghost of a beautiful woman
and sleep with faucets from upstairs
trickling down through swollen woodwork
to rain on my candled eyes until my vision smokes over.
I turn around, and all the trees have taken off their clothes.
They stand in the empty, naked and stark, like buildings;
the high-risen monuments to a concrete winter.