Rain days

by ...

Alice Burdick

 

Water on every level. Driving
music forces forth the very nice mice,
their eyes clinging to light, half-lidded.

Waves never stop,
or that would shock organizational
hair streaks stacked flush. Find
boxes before they find you,
in a topple. As guilt goes,
it’s not a bad ride.

The children wave
their long-fringed eyes in smiles
or tears. It’s all communication.

Steam exudes its noisy
humour. People clean
everything all the time.
Torsos twist in muscle memory —
all muscles have a brain, and all
brains their muscles.

Low-level complaint, but that
doesn’t mean it’s insignificant.
People wander and run into each other
many times in this small city.

Rapid attachments – like tendrils
to eyeballs – all these strings in
to bodies. We pull our selves up
by our bootstraps, real tendons
that hold our muscles taut or loose.

Internal balls of yarn.
The workings. It’s not human
or nature. It’s not a choice
we can make. We are both.
Even when we fake it, we’ll still
be the rocks in the stream:
changing the water and eroded
by it at the same time.

 

 

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