My Hair Burned Like Berenice

Long periods of downpour. The drey outside my window would fall

also, the breeze would loot.

My heart was valent

with probability: I could be anybody now, half lady,

half asterism.

Fragmental as another year. Supporter holy person

of the rutilant and cindering. I could wander in disguise

to places stuck in office schedules.

Too lengthy I'd

mothered myself with the deference of spectators.

I was thankful to be separated from everyone else in my reflection. To be both

overlooked and rubbed by a coarse sky. I didn't propose

portions of me like fuel.

I won't decorate a solitary

half of the globe. The ground swells with a wet sound.

It is glutted with what was given. I accomplish the wolfish work

of god and make myself once more.

Mature like lichen on

the asphalt. Like downpour conveying the memory of lightning.