after Laura Gilpin
that rain is the joyful collapse of cloud
and silver linings are pricked hearts
that the sun silks down its yellow into red
and sunsets are failed prose
that desire is the shape of windows
and each darkness, a prism
that the hollow heart can take a bullet
and eyes become scarred fractals
that humans are maladaptive inventories
and we have all been unsafe tolerance
that the continuum of anxiety is a snooze button
and the left-hand side of wrong is an empty bed
and that I’ve mined past the dark of Balrog
and the joyful collapse of cloud is me
