What I think
crawls under the city bed.
Sweepers can't touch my dust.
It stays stuck to the wind's flitting.
But it has to rain.
Thoughts like plummeting cups
containing water still enough to be a mirror
spin at the soil to reveal themselves.
I never had to use an umbrella.
Thoughts soak up in my scalp –
but soon, they float above my fingers
like unorganized ghosts
searching for their wasteland.
No mask works to keep them out.
You got to be still as a dead-wind pond
and thoughts will shake their walls of mist
seeing that you reflect their weather.
When their brief dance disperses to gather
enough pestilence to wipe now from a broken watch,
you can stand with your ancestors
as a tower that carries tired flowers with names
too old to remember how they are free.