it’s the small things that create, otherwise
this morning is inconsequential, the sun
is only rising to sink again, an anchor
a falling star, its curse, repetition
it has rained now, ever since when
and the drops fall in patterns, beat
morse code letters into rooftops
the heavens cry their tears, forever
would not be forever without a day,
this morning would be nothing without
the sun, everything needs everything
or else it isn’t, there
is congruence in the faces
of unimportance, the line is drawn
with water slipping down the window
with this hand tracing your face
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem