Firetides

I am not so much filled with, as a vessel

for, a tremendous rain spring of sadness.

Flow through me, sour tinctures. Rest deep

and be renewed and then you may return

unto my precious carapace, loins

like lungs, I crave you

and the rain spring

longings

endure deep my toes, seeping

skin, lost boys’ distractions

tracing beauty losing sight.

Chickens and trickles and a 

man holding a toddler’s hand—

they crouch in the

shattered porcelain, looking

down and around—

I’m looking down and around

and I feel it sinking

wonder what’ll be left.