The Rivers and the Dry Spells
Tears can flow loosely like unrighteous gifts, curling,
like good hair, around bags down under
shaded lamps, taking with them manhood,
makeup, and mistakes canned in l'amour or misery.
These tears are spirits, meeting at the Philtrum,
gathering, as if to converse, then have the audacity
to pull strayed strands together, dripping
from the longest onto carved thighs, very close to
genitals. But they have no worries; they are safe,
in Boxers. This I can say of tears, they are lights,
illuminating places between Cheekbones
and Afflictions. Some tears have no river.
Their predecessors were young men, coming
ever so often. These are a thoughtful kind.
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