January 8 (morning)

 

You have an odd or let’s say interesting

way of never touching anything

let’s call it a phobia like water

and oil, let’s call it a version

of all other parts of same selves

that in graceful delusion function

as divine embankment

let’s say a god dam, a way

to keep themselves dry awhile

their elemental partners thrash and 

          gasp

and boil right next to and functionally 

in them —

it’s the cosmos baby

it’s a way to have no

change, if never you melt

if never your parts intermixed

if always with the “you” business

with these holy buttresses 

that can’t remember what it feels

like to weep