Old as Rain
Everyone chooses their knowing.
Some big. Some small.
Some HOT HOT HOT.
Some cold.
Knowing seeps through the cracks.
Cracks, a sign of weakness, old ness, brokenness
a sign of living
of being used
of using.
Cracks from the wind
the whistle of their whisper.
Jet planes, bow and arrows
straight into the void,
where cracks begin.
Where screams come and echo
ripple through time
across the radiance of the stars
each mounting an escape through our eyes
to our imaginations
the womb’s eye
catching soul light
until she can’t hold anymore.
Blood dripping star light
bridge times
make believe and lies.
Lying on the street as the sweepers churn mid April
taking the dry bits of winter away
back to the piles of trash we like to keep hidden from view
no one wants reminding of the cracks
we pretend they disappear
objects with cracks, forgotten
until they are filled up with enough distractions
from sidewalks in fall.
Acorns and squirrel dens
home made in cracks
crack as home.
Beauty in the eye of the seen.
Once the sleep is brushed from the corners of her eyes, making visible the marks on her page and her belly.
Marks making marks until it wears a hole
on the page and the skin.
a Wound.
Place of entry and exit
oozing and opalescent
suffering and satiated
monstrous and majestic.
Commingle, coalesce, cohabitate with the unknown
where the stars currently reside.
Only known by the light emitted from past wounds.
Before we were imagined.
As old as rain.
