Time is raining, pouring,
no tank to store it.
arid soil.
a dry soul. dying gracefully -
it’s killing him.

him, eyes like infrared cameras
searching for warmth
maybe in the wrong places

heavy downpour of minutes
gusts of tears in self-disgust

ticking clock missing heartbeat
breath withheld: a red fish moment
asphyxiating in a snow globe

time is raining through his fingers
nothing filtered, nothing kept
water running on the surface
impermeable to streams of love

feeling unwanted,  a body in a landfill
just a passing cloud
just a passing cloud
in one sunny afternoon

and he

would fall asleep
head on dusty mustard couch
(brackets) : dreams, a cuddling space
strings in the winds
whispers of vespers
when all else has disappeared

in-between and under blankets
temporary blindness just to dream

dream
(…)
a taxidermist’s house in the fog
a fox, once stuffed, is now running free
profane space turns into sacred grove
here, a lucus in the eye of the forest
near the bridge, at the waterfall
where it’s raining upwards, to the sky

to the sky
a word, a prayer
blurry worries evaporate
from eyelids that painfully open
to a world that’s crystal clear

and he

awakens to faith
to time’s passing
quenching thirst
from endless sources.