Have you ever seen a clear sky before?
or is that just a metaphor—
for a spotless kind of beauty
that doesn’t exist?
cause from where i’m standing,
i wonder
if the sky thinks of the clouds as blemish;
does blue think of white
as streaks of imperfection?
it seems it’s only in the blotted things
I can see my own reflection.
these puffs pass below me
in a puddle beneath my feet
muddles the face that Today already
hates seeing,
and from somewhere in the east
between the cracks of buildings,
the Sun bleeds in
to greet me.
Greedy
for its light to hit my face,
to fill the craters and spaces
where i’ve pinched and pulled,
he fills me with shame.
Enlarges the shadow beneath my feet
yearning for something more than all of me,
–this blur of landscape of a body—
in a little lake blotted on the concrete.