REASON

I’ve said this before and still
can’t find the rest. 

When I broke the pitcher 
I thought the water was being divided. 

I didn’t know what it meant, but I felt pain 
all over, and then everything was normal and gone. 

I’ve been filling my shoes with feathers 
for good luck, lately. I press my ear against 

the walls and listen for my neighbors brushing their teeth. 
Last night, I painted a cross on my hand and called it 

Sans Titre. 

I’m afraid of outliving my intuition 
so I rarely use it. 

The rain in the window and the space heater reflected in it. 
What an ambitious image. 

Maybe I’ve been too much for myself, the blue 
in my skin and under it. 

Here’s a reason. Here it is as a white dog 
explaining nothing. 

I sit in my own thinking, sick with it. 
Somewhere, the world is resurfacing 

too far away from me, the people just missing each other 
by inches. Their shoulders as ordinary music. 

Here they are.