Morning Rain, Forgiven

Just when the leaves throw themselves

into a vacuous heap,

I see a dew drop wave goodbye.

It is morning,

but I’ve yet to see

the sun reach the sky.

When the hours are small,

I feel alive.

Sometimes,

I like to walk through the rain,

hurtIe myself 20 minutes

plus a mile and a half away,

cloud dust cruising

to meet my shimmering face.

When it is morning,

part of me dies.

A part of me lies awake when I’m dreaming,

and instead of leaving after the show,

I just,

you know,

hang around.

A part of me is apart from me

and I hear her whisper

when I listen for the sound.

I love myself most

when there’s no one else in town.

At this point I’ve forgiven myself,

come to grips with the scarlet tongue

that speaks through my crackling lips.

I’ve forgiven the slips,

but these gifts don’t come with receipts.

If I eat what I’m not,

will I still be me?

In the morning,

under a robin sky,

I wave goodbye to the dew

that will come around again,

that will come down as rain

and wash away all the ballpoint stains

and run them out of the state.

In the morning

the rain will come

and I will feel

forgiven.