the patter of rain on your upturned palms
turned to wind-wrapped hair and damp eyes
in the beat of wings and troubled decisions
we watched a storm grow and die together.


“Simulated Rest”

He curled up on the grass
and pretended to die
with such startling efficiency
that all the senses fled
and his heart slowed to
nothing, each thudding beat
filling him like nothing else.

bare feet felt grass, felt edges
tipped forward stroke backward
admiring endless nothing, oblivion
before deciding it was not for him
and coughing back into existence,
sitting up and clearing his eyes.