0 minutes l8r & I’m still standing here, still. Still in the way that clouds don’t move until you put your hand over them— still in the way a fly is, still in the way that convinces others but never yourself.

and you’re telling yourself,
Don’t
you
cry.

2 minutes l8r & I’m just standing here, still. Still in a manner which can now be perceived; not because you’re moving but because you seem like you’re not. The chickadees are singing their song from below the cloudline, a storm is coming, a storm is coming. It is not moving but it is deadly.

and you’re still telling yourself,
Don’t
you
cry.

15 minutes l8r & I’m no longer still. Still in a way that I cannot see anymore as my fingers leave dust where they tremble on the tile, rust behind them. The birds no longer sing because they are on the ground, praying. A storm has arrived.

and you’re clutching at yourself:
DON’T
YOU
CRY.

32 minutes l8r & I can
t stay still, in the distan
ce light ning hits that tree hits that tree, in the distance,
and up from it shoots tears.
tears of flame. licking at the sparrows still runn
ning, we watch the

chickadees
pray on the ground, pray on the ground,

but that is not how you pray:
that is how you die.

this is how i die.
against the sink, where your
head used to be,
32 minutes after God.