From the First Light

July 26, 2002

Hedonistic virtues aside,
love comes with prices too heavy sometimes.
June and July with warmth and wetness,
August breezing in on an oppressive front,
the growing of time splintering each crevice
into a myriad of thoughts that sex
and blood, and roses, and welts,
or butterflies on daffodils in spring
will prove life worth the cost.
Every miniscule moment I think on purpose.
Each day that creeps past me
(swat at the clock, and shout, "Hey!
Don't do that!")
But I think I'm crushing the life out
of every second that I live.
And in the blind succulence of summer,
I offer out my wrists for a slice,
for a smack, for a kiss, for more.
Out of the dampened rocks, I crawl
and I open my mouth to the raindrops
falling with enough velocity to sting me.
I open my mouth and out comes a sob.
I just sit in the rain, and I cry.
I sit in the rain and I wonder why I am here.
I cry under the clouds and I dream I mean something.