What Accidental Grace Fills the Mistakes
I am worried about the sun again,
light and warmth like
the softest touch on your shoulder
as a lover walks by
the day before they leave you.
We should rip ourselves open like clouds
and give birth to birds.
How do we even begin
when we’ve already begun
pouring down on those who asked
for no feather of the sort? We stir
ourselves into storms.
Lover, long ago I spread myself
like fog. I have, like a field,
quietly stayed down.
Every ecosystem I’ve evolved for you.
Forest. Desert. Tundra. I am
your every terrain
and terrible when left alone.
Prescribe me fauna
for this feverish isolation.
What flora a fire destroys
it does so without malice. The rocket
the boy shot into the prairie
he did so with only
the miracle of flight in mind
like the man who stole the plane
and spoke so brokenly from the air
before crashing back to earth.
Understand landing
safely
is the true miracle.
The arrow the girl released
at the rabbit
went flying overhead.
What accidental
grace fills this world,
and this world
is a mistake.
I am in it
to prove nothing else.