In the first few years the sky was clear,
Then the ground dropped out rapidly
Tumbling, fumbling, numbing, falling.
And down a snow laden path
No two are alike; some are not alive.
Thy brain is a haven for chaotic synaptic prose
Connected to something that holds nothing.
In the next few years the sky darkened
Then the grass blew, charred and broken
Sliding, trying, living, wishing.
That way the clouds dance against the boughs
The rush was real; the way imagination feels
Against the heaving breast of a starving girl
Feeding off the world, but her stomach holds nothing.
In the final years the sky succumbed to tears
Then the pregnant clouds broke water
Click click click
Washing, coughing, talking, stopping.
Across a muddy street with heavy feet
The splash of steps; drowned by puddles
Shallow enough to reflect an ocean
A bucket with a hole holds nothing.