I remember precisely when the skies opened

and filled the wayfarers with thirst. It is common

knowledge that there is will, and then there’s

the rot that is inevitable. Of course, it never ends.

Spring is the loneliest time, but the jacarandas

keep coming and coming as if deaf to expectations.

The things I know of this world are boundless:

I do not know exactly what want is, but still,

I want want to contrast the forever ache. In that

one dream, I am the horse, and the field, and my faith

hangs over my head like a cherry apple. The truth

is that I do not think I am ready, at all, to die.

Not that it matters. The ground doesn’t even remember

a thing of what we thought would be unforgettable.

I have survived what I was told would be possible

for me to survive. Not that it matters. The overture

will come when all is silent. Which might be never.

Which might be exactly when the symphony calls for it.