4:17

the sky is exceptionally blue this morning and your eyes
are the inside of a pearl. today you are a speck of dust, a leopard
who has lost his spots. you are the way the sky
lusts after the sun, seething, never failing to break his own heart.
now the sky lets forth its tears in a provoking show of fire

and water, just as you fall at my feet after your sun has snapped
your heart into seven or eight ceramic tile pieces shaped like the clay
heart you gave me on st.valentines' last february.
but i will pat your head, soggy as the tearstained grass beneath my

shoes as i give you my anorak, and make you face the water damage
leaking from the celing of your heart just as i'll face the poor, dejected sky's
petulent teardrops in the form of half-soaked chalk children on the sidewalks

and a provoking squelch in the left sneaker of a man in aisle four
of the supermarket: and i'll buy you tissues and cheesecloth to wipe up your heartache.
the time is 4:17, and i beleive that i'm alive.