Footprints, too, are a kind of offering
when there's nothing left to feed the children
this forward motion in almost sand
sinking like a promise to come home
to something like a handful of water
I sip slowly, remembering how thought follows
a strange train in the sand. So what
if I can't touch my toes or bake a decent loaf of bread
I know there are aliens out there, which is better
than believing in God or trusting the government
and trust me, I am not able to do either of those things
but I do celebrate the rain when it's been hot for so long
the thunder, I welcome it. Earth to bone rattling.
What do you know about making windows?