there are raindrops that cling and raindrops that fall. there are comets that call out their dying around and around--there is halley who's dizzy and knows which kind of raindrop she'd be if she could reach the earth--
a question on a slip of paper, maybe the back of a receipt, maybe written with the pen at the bottom of your bag that has been missing its cap for two months but is not yet dried up and you fold it in half, maybe three times, partly to hide it and partly to smallen, and you roll it and hold it between thumb and index and you look for god in the rain taking the ink and leaving the leaf-litter wishes sodden on the ground. your prayer was query, not request, but it too could litterize. then you tuck your roll into the stones and turn around anyway, all forward eyes, and that is faith.
the baby teeth are a map and a compass. when they come out the real guys file in, erupting the gums, ending sentences with prepositions until they learn where to stand. It's a wisdom trap--the third molars are learned until they know they don't belong. Someday they'll stop trying altogether. Good riddance. And in their place, the sutures sew the site of eruption like tying the loose ends of a volcano and hoping the lava pressure doesn't brew. I came out when I saw I could stand next to you. I trip over uneven stitches. I am not held together.
She was beside this guy, and beside herself with her and him. She remembers sitting on his shoulders while the sun set over Jerusalem. She was smiling in such a way that the sun was backing down from a challenge neither it nor I had seen, which is why I took the picture.
It was beautiful to see. The tilt of her head for his photographs, the link of her arm for his steadying walk, the share of her sounds with him--one earbud apiece--all the things she used to do with me
And in the holy city I was blessed to see her dance between two kinds of love so seamlessly
I am looking for someone I know her name but I don't know what she calls herself. I take a microscope to everything I see thinking she must be pretty small to have escaped me so long but she doesn't hide in flakes of metal or the grains of wood. All matter is just pieces that don't look like they should stay together but things don't just fall apart, so. I have to find her.
The silicon in sand is learned by crystal system, organized into branches and the seed crystal is cubic imagine diamonds in the grains imagine cut against the grain a glass tree doesn't know enough of crystal symmetry to grow back imagine it opens a book leaves to pages to learn only half how to help the other half how to dissociate ions scattered across the earth crust never enough. This is how sand is made.