Now lunacy kicks its hoof,
throwing dust across my heart.
The taste of sour gin
lengthens out the smart.

All the the things I've ever
felt entitled to are gone.
I've felt deeply about too much,
I've felt it all too long.

I guess I understand now,
if to understand is to think.
Where and when and how
are still fabulous unformed things.

There isn’t much reason
to heave these dense veins
unobligated and alone.
I lay down and let the rain

cry for me instead.
On my face I can tell
it wished it was frozen,
cryogenic as it fell

so it could be solid, strong,
colder. It would never fall
again, just melt to a throng
of puddles and vanish.

I realize now nothing
I thought was mine was.
Not the spectacular waves
receding or the buzz

of beer. Not my guitar,
its rich sounds,
that shooting star
that I wished on in the desert

August of 2008.
Not my first lover
or my big brother’s hate.
Right now I discover

what was mine is here:
my veins, my skin, my eyes, my face,
my happiness and hurt:
small sanities in the rain's lace.