standing on the corner of Burnside & 23rd,
the tears trapped on my eyelashes
form rainbowed halos
in the presence of unfamiliar sunlight.
riding the bus west
between canyons of trees,
gilded rays filter
through smudged glass.
on a Sharpied picnic table above the clouds
I rest my heavy head,
lifting my neck only
to gaze upon the city below.
desiccated blackberries hang at my sides.
the narrow streets are slick &
weighed down by bitter asphalt,
and the decomposing bodies of leaves
evening wind bites at my ears,
gnaws at knees not accustomed
to the intimacy of prayer.
I speak other names at night.
improperly called gods loom beyond,
bathed in pink light,
cleansed by rains
that once seemed endless.
a patient dog sits on a porch (in silence),
waiting for his turn to cry.
the new moon above
reminds him of his place.
I also look up
& outwards
& inwards
& beyond reality
hoping for an antidote
to the poison seeping into the pale soil of my mind.