Equal Parts

Inconsistency is always an issue
when you’re the sky, whether scientists
are doing calculations surrounding
you or not. Even the clouds disarray,

skew what our minds think of as shapes,
or omens, or ways to dissipate slow
as dripping molasses. I’m sure lungs still
holding my breath are waiting for him

to use words as a cure or a weapon,
any reassurance the waves don’t reflect
blue mutability, won’t hold our bones
for too long, constant grinding away,

against each other, then apart, wave
after lulling salted wave, too buoyant
with longing to sink, oh, how we wish
lucidity and ghosts would drown…


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