I wonder as nascent mythology / quietly makes the rain.
God’s angry with the world again
Have I not had my fill of you, dream babies?
In the morning / the mind looks out onto a street / blurry with self.
I had imagined grief to be the trilobite
If I cannot tell you everything does that make what’s left myth?
Some of us are graves of our own occasion and carry that / to the end
It reminds how first life is not enough, then too much.
I know it’s the brain, not you, / that loves, or fails to love.
Days and days repeat in superfluous / museums of routine.