I say thank you to the rain for watering my plants
this morning and I hear more people talking
to their gods than the day before,
a sign we’re afraid.

the tree keeps me dry as some insects drown
beside my feet (the small are seldom lucky)
everyone wants to come out a winner,
but there are only so many special seats.
sometimes a mother,
other times a border
how fair can water ever be?

our bodies held
conversations
better than
we ever could

I’ve become an expert in
stringing together
the loose pieces
(collectively) known as
myself
and rearranging them
to another's liking:
a composer      of sorts
        taking requests:
an ensemble of personalities
each one curated for
somebody else

soft spoken,
a need
to scream.

when the day seems
too far, I’ll put
anything in between.

these hands are
nothing new,
and we’re still
learning to agree

is it the room
spinning, or is
it me?