Gratification to the survivors of daily damnations

Thanks to the clouds on fire, the burning sunset,

and every diminishing as beautiful as time.

Thanks to the moments that are not yours,

the soft part of the world you are in

when you tiptoe to your mother’s room,

the unending seconds until you hear her snore

because the lost lyrics of the living

will always escape through the mouth.

Thanks to the quietness she drew from the well of nights

and bottled for you by dawn—for the lilacs,

the roses, and the thorns blooming in your mouth.

We pocket the heart until we know what to do with it.

Nature introduces spring to us like visitors.

Living and leaving, we multitask at our best.

When you get home, stare around like it’s another man’s.

Like this can be here, like that can be beautiful.

Cigar this life and light it with the sun.

Breathe this poem in. Own a spot on a cliff or an edge

or somewhere that can carry a stamp of your body.

Become. Open a book and see this trapped time

I left for you to live all over.