When I cannot see
past the dust on my
window, forgetful of
my sunlit tears that
dried so long ago,
I listened to the rain,
its conducive voice
imposing words on
my tongue like obols.
I am obeisant to what
they say, and I wait for
the silence when I can
digest a language my
own. Visible only at
sunset is an anarchy
of beauty perfected
in my memory not all
words can describe.
Hidden secrets are
never knotted inside
once they are asleep,
but they bat at me
when I am awake,
and I hug every word;
that’s what has kept
me alive in the day.
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