Thank you whoever tuned the radio
to rain, thank you who spilled
the strong-willed wine for not
so I’m not to blame. I’m glad
I’m not that broken tree
it looks sublime. And glad I’m not
taking a test and running out of time.
What’s a tetrahedron anyway?
What’s the sublime, 3,483 divided by 9,
the tenth amendment, the ferryman’s name
on the River Styx? We’re all missing
more and more tricks, losing our grips,
guilty of crimes we didn’t commit.
The horse rears and races then moves no more,
the sports coupe grinds to a stop, beginning
a new life as rot, beaten to shit.
Whitman grass stain,
consciousness swamp gas,
the bones and brain,
protoplasm and liver,
ground down like stones in a river.
the heart’s cinder wash up as delta froth
out of which hops frog spawn, dog song,
the next rhyming grind, next kid literati?
Maybe the world’s just a bubble, all
philosophy ants in a muddle,
an engine inside an elk’s skull on a pole.
Maybe an angel’s long overdue and we’re
all in trouble. Meanwhile thanks whoever
for the dial turned to green downpour, thanks
for feathery conniptions at the seashore
and moth-minded, match-flash breath.
Thank you for whatever’s left.
Spring Reign by Dean Young
the verge of breaking through
standing in the pouring rain
hoping to find you
somewhere in the darkness
of this dark and stormy night
questions with no answers
crashing through my soul
bloody battles all around
as I stand within my pain
holding on to faith in something
in the middle of this night
at the end of living
not knowing what to do
tears, they match the weather
flooding from my soul
release me for a moment
there’s work for me to do
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