The world is like nothing we have ever seen,

the catastrophe of the morning's rain

hangs in the air and will not be drawn out. Yet, light.

On the horizon that has forgotten itself

and the water that refuses to own its depth

there is light.

A lone crawler toward light—

his back like a beacon on the road—that frog

that refused to budge, like light through eyelids

he sat in your mind, crawled into the space

behind your smile and sketched himself beyond your eyes.

We speak pictures of nothing in silence, quite unalike.

And the rain falls on. Scrape, blot, wipe wet paint,

draw over. Nothing can be undone, draw over, paint on

until the canvas turns in on itself and is pierced

by a hole, a flame, a lake.