When it rains, I want it to be my fault.
I want to waltz on fresh formed rivers round the park
and jump the puddled path to my door.

History rappels down a ledge. I hang sideways
on a sill near the top. All I cannot see lies below
me. I am lowered on invisible strings.
 
(The world presses down.)

When I was a child I was put in a room.
Storms entered through the second story
floorboards. Fires spread across the ceiling.
 
(When the door swung open, I jumped.)

There were palm trees outside; the wind moved
them only at night. I lit candles in my closet.
I crawled on burning sand toward creases of light.
 
(Nothing to do but walk in thickness.)

I want to climb back up the wall. I want the sky
to squirm overhead. To walk in rain in the mango
fields and carry the sky on a llama.